Guy Langman, Crime Scene Procrastinator Read online

  “That’s like saying ‘Why breathe in? You have to breathe out eventually.’ ”

  “Exactly.”

  “So why live at all? Why even bother existing if you’re just going to coast through, doing as little as possible? Why be just another sheep to the slaughter, another cog in the wheel, another boring asshole in jeans and a T-shirt?”

  “I may be an asshole, but I am not boring.”

  “I don’t know why I even bother talking to you, ever. Consider this our last chat.” She takes out a pen and starts writing.

  The idea of Maureen not talking to me bothers me a little bit for a reason I can’t place. I decide to reach out a little.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. Listen. Can I tell you a secret?”

  She keeps her arms folded and her eyes narrowed, but I see a hint of a smile at the edges of her mouth. No one can resist a secret.

  “You better not be messing with me,” she says.

  “Totally serious,” I say. She uncrosses her arms. I continue. “I know they are pretty ridiculous, but damn, I sort of want to start wearing ascots.”

  “What?”

  “Ascots. Like scarves. My dad used to wear one.”

  Her mouth opens widely and her eyes light up. She is like a whole new Maureen all of a sudden.

  “What did I say?”

  “I love ascots!” she says.

  “Are you breaking my balls? I know ascots are pretty dumb, but—”

  “No, I mean, yes, but that’s why they’re awesome. I really think you should start wearing an ascot.”

  “Maybe I will, someday,” I say. “Someday I will.”

  I have a hard time picturing myself making good on the promise, but the thought makes me smile. Is there any reason you can’t show up at high school wearing an ascot? Not really.

  Now it’s Forensics Time, MFs! Mr. Zant scheduled an extra session this week for a “very special” lesson. I can barely contain my excitement. Mr. Zant walks in with a laptop under his arm. “Can anyone guess what we’ll be doing today?” he asks the group. What’s left of us, anyway. So weird that I outlasted Anoop.

  “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say we’re doing some computer forensics,” TK says. “Call me crazy.”

  “You are crazy,” Mr. Zant says. Then he does that thing where he cocks his head sideways and freezes his mouth into an eerie smile. He holds it for seriously a minute or longer, which might not seem that long, but is pretty insane to see in person. Then he shakes it off and resumes talking. “You are close, T-to-the-K,” he says. “But in fact today’s forensics lesson is specifically on fractography.”

  Maureen looks really pleased. Big fractography fan over here, I guess. While Zant talks—okay, it’s sort of cool that fractography is “the way things break”—I think about Maureen and how she seems like she hates me, but then maybe not? Why does she know about fractography? Does she read books on forensics for fun? And should I really start wearing an ascot? And then, yeah, I go back to thinking about Raquel and Anoop. Should I just be happy for them? It’s so weird. Looking at the two of them, you’d imagine that she probably wouldn’t let him sniff her bra if he was the last guy on earth. Wait: Why would he even want to sniff her bra? Do I want to? Kinda. And why does the thought give me a boner? And why does Mr. Zant call on me right as I am sprouting a healthy wood?

  “Could you repeat the question, Mr. Z?” I ask. My voice is about four octaves too high on the word “you,” and the word “question” comes out like “quest-ee-own” for some reason. I’m so pathetic.

  “Just asking if you’d like to come up to get a better look at the screen like the rest of us,” he says. I hadn’t noticed that everyone else had gotten out of their seats and was gathered around Mr. Z’s laptop. He is showing close-up images of two broken bottles. He is explaining how you can tell that one was broken by severe force, while the other was dropped to the ground. All that just from some broken glass. It caught a murderer too. I kinda do want to see it. If I weren’t having this, um, situation. In my pants.

  “I’m just going to stay here, if that’s cool,” I say, trying to sound, well, cool. Probably failing.

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  “Yeah, sounds fascinating,” I say. “But I’m just gonna chill back here for a bit.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks. “Really sure?”

  “Yes!” I yell.

  Now I’m just going to go ahead and put this out there as a general public-service announcement if any teachers happen to be reading this. If a guy (or Guy) in your high school class is acting weird about standing up for some reason, and is making excuses for not coming to the board or coming over to see your laptop or whatever, the reason is clear. He has a boner. Please do not make him get up. It’s cruel. Thank you. This has been a public-service announcement brought to you by Guy Langman, Inc.

  “Suit yourself,” he says. I say nothing more, choosing to quit while I am behind. Brilliant! It is actually kind of interesting, the whole fractography thing, from what I can tell safely in the boner zone in the back.

  “It’s kinda poetic, the whole idea,” Maureen says. “The way things break. Everything breaks, it’s just a matter of how.”

  “Poetic. I never thought of it that way,” Zant says.

  Raquel rolls her eyes. She thinks she can be above everything just by being beautiful. It’s sort of annoying, really. Anoop can freaking have her.

  Mr. Zant says, “We’re going to sort of take it easy for a while—Guy, I know this will be a challenge for you.” I manage a weak smile while everyone laughs. “Don’t forget to mark your calendars for our big final project. Hopefully the weather will be good and we’ll do the simulated scene in the field. I’ll plant the evidence. You’ll solve the crime.”

  “Oh, I’ll solve it,” I say. “I’ll solve it indeed.” Why do I say that? No idea.

  But before diving into that crime, I have some of my own research to do.

  I take the “activity bus” home, which is even more sparsely populated than the morning bus. It’s just me and the creepy bus driver on the creepy short bus. I’m starting to seriously think about studying for that driver’s license. On the ride, I have basically one thought: How to find Jacques Langman? I feel proud of myself for landing the name, but I don’t know what to do with it. Would Mom be helpful? It’s not like I asked. She doesn’t even know I got as far as finding the name. And okay, I’m having two thoughts: How can I find Jacques Langman, and should I find Jacques Langman? Is there a reason he was kept secret from me? Probably. But wouldn’t it be nice to talk to my own freaking brother? Could anyone else on earth know what the loss of Fran is like? Maybe it would help. Closure. That’s a Dr. Waters word.

  The bus drops me off, and I wander up the long, winding driveway. The trees are looking overgrown. A rainspout blew off the house in a storm a few weeks ago and is still sitting in the grass. Is that something I’m supposed to take care of now? Are we going to move? It’s crazy how these little things make me think of Dad.

  When I get to the door, I see another little bit of life that hasn’t been taken care of—a phone book was delivered and never brought in. The phone book seems like such a useless thing in today’s world. Who uses a phone book these days? It can sit out there, rotting forever, for all I care. But then, hey, I have a thought. What if Jacques Langman lives nearby? Would his number be listed in there? Could it be that easy?

  I lift the book out of the bag. It’s a little wet, but I can still read it okay. I flip through and find the “L’s.” And oh man, the only Langman in the phone book is Francis. Pretty weird, seeing it there. The name and number of a dead man. You never think about stuff like that. Should we notify someone? I flip through the pages, wondering, How many dead people are in the phone book? Weird thought. I scan the names. Every one of them will die someday. This giant, hefty book. Corpses all, one day. Nice. Obsessive thoughts of death are a major sign of depression, says Dr. Waters. Maybe obsessive thoughts of death are ju
st a sign that you’re paying attention to life.

  I scan the pages, not looking for anything in particular. Then I see someone whose last name is “Boner” and I laugh out loud. Frank Boner. There are actually a whole clan of them. Steve Boner, Jill Boner. A whole crew of Boners. Family reunions must be a trip. What do you call a group of Boners? Is there a word for it? A flock of Boners? Sounds right. I had a flock of boners in Forensics today.

  I flip through the book a bit more and another thought crosses my mind. Hairston Danforth. Maybe I could look up Penis-Head and see if he could help me locate Jacques. If it’s true that he’s got hacker skills, maybe he knows where to find stuff like that. He could snoop around somehow and figure things out. I’m a good snoop myself, and I have the number within seconds. Okay, it’s right there in black and white, hardly a secret. His father’s name is also Hairston, of course, so under DANFORTH, HAIRSTON, a number is listed. I unlock the door of Langman Manor and head into the house. I find myself pressing the numbers on the alarm, but there’s no reason to disarm it. Mom never remembers to set it, and neither do I. But I still find myself disarming it, as if Dad were still here. I find it easy to see why people believe in ghosts.

  I toss the phone book onto the granite countertop, pick up the phone, and dial the number for the Danforth residence. Sure enough, Penis-Head picks up.

  “Hey, Hairston,” I say. “Frank Boner here.” I don’t know why I say it. He says nothing. It sounds like he’s about to hang up. I don’t want to lose my chance, so I quickly yell, “J/K! It’s Guy Langman from school. How’s it going?”

  “It is going fine,” he says. His voice is flat. If he’s surprised that I’m calling, he doesn’t show it. “I thought you were another prank phone call.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I just saw some guy named Frank Boner in the phone book when I was looking up your number. It made me laugh.”

  “Ha,” he says. Then, “Why were you looking me up in the phone book?”

  “There was one sitting on the deck. I know I could have looked you up online or whatever …”

  “No,” he says. “I mean, why were you looking for my number?”

  “Well, Hair-Bear,” I say. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Sure. Well, is it true that you have mad computer skillz?”

  “Mad skills?”

  “With a ‘z.’ You have to say it like that. Mad skillzzzzzz.”

  “Um, what?”

  “Whatever. I mean, like you’re good at doing computer stuff.”

  “I guess so. Let me guess: you got a virus downloading porn?”

  “No, it’s just—” I start to explain, but he cuts me off.

  “You want some codes to hack the pay-porn sites?”

  “Nah, I’m—”

  “You need more storage to save your porn?”

  “Hairston,” I say loudly. “Everyone knows I prefer my porn analog. This is about something else.”

  “Analog porn, huh?”

  I sigh. “My dad left behind a treasure trove of old Playboys. I know those chicks are like sixty now, which is weird, but who cares, right? Way hotter than any girl out there today.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “I’ll give you one if you want. You strike me as a Lisa Baker kind of dude. She was 1967 Playmate of the Year and well deserving of the honor. It will pain me to part with her, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “I need a favor. I need to find someone.”

  “Okay, and you think I can help?” he asks, maybe just the tiniest bit of cheer creeping into his voice.

  “Yeah, can’t you hack into some databases or something?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. What do you know?”

  I tell Hairston what I know about Jacques Langman—his name, his approximate age. He seems a bit less interested now that we’re not talking about porn, but he grunts in assent when I’m done with my spiel.

  “Do you want to hold?” he says.

  “You’re going to do it right now?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he says. “I have my laptop right here. It’s not like it’s hacking. It’s just rummaging around through some government records, cross-searching phone directories. It’s on the open Web. No big deal. I’ll figure it out.”

  “It’s pretty creepy how good you are at that,” I say. “You’d make a good cop.”

  “I guess,” he says.

  “Or a criminal.”

  “Thanks?” he laughs. I laugh. Laughing it up with Penis-Head. I hear the clacking of the keys on his laptop. He whistles a little tune. I go to the fridge and look for something good. There isn’t anything, so I just chug some milk out of the bottle. And a few moments later he has it. “Jacques Langman,” he says. “There’s only one in the country. He was arrested in Pennsylvania about twenty years ago.”

  “For what?” I spit the milk out. It splashes a white puddle onto the black counter. It looks like the chalk outline of a corpse. I feel sick to my stomach.

  “Murder,” he says.

  “What?” I shriek.

  “Just kidding, dude. Relax.”

  “Oh man, why did you say that?” I yell. I feel my heart slowly crawl back to the approximate region of my chest where it belongs.

  “It was actually just assault with a deadly weapon,” he says.

  “Very funny,” I say.

  “No, that part is serious. He really was arrested for assault with a deadly weapon for attacking a cop in Easton, Pennsylvania.”

  “That’s a pretty freaking weird joke, Hairston.”

  “Whatever. He got off.” I hear some more keys clacking.

  “Whoa. Where is he now?”

  “Hold on. Let me check this other thing and … It seems like he lives in New York. Last updated address is Manhattan. Not too far from here at all.” He reads the address and I scramble to find a pen to write it down. I scribble it into the margin of the DANFORTH page of the phone book, though I’m not quite sure why.

  “Hello?” Hairston says.

  “Yeah, I’m still here,” I say.

  “You going to tell me why you need this particular piece of information?” he asks.

  “Not really,” I say.

  “You going to at least say ‘Thank you, Hairston, for being so awesome’ or something?” he says.

  “Thank you, Hairston, for being so, so awesome,” I say, aware that my voice sounds insincere. I do mean it, though. I do appreciate it. It’s just hard to focus, staring at the address of Jacques Langman written in black ink in the margins of a phone book.

  “I’ll take that Playboy at school. Lisa Baker. In a brown paper bag, please.”

  “Sure, sure,” I say, totally distracted. Now that I have the means to do it, I’m not so sure I should try to find Jacques Langman anymore. Trouble is, what if he tries to find me?

  I decide to do some more writing on the book, but it’s pretty much falling apart. I keep trying to pretend I’m an objective biographer, and I don’t think you’re supposed to say “I” in that kind of reporting, so I keep saying “the author.” It just sounds weird and eventually it’s just me writing about myself. But not because you told me to, Dr. Waters!

  “Rules for Living”: The Francis Langman Story

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Do not trust those who love death or those who hide from it. Death is part of life, but so is the clap. And let me tell you: it is no fun, but you’d be foolish to pretend it doesn’t exist. Seriously, Guy, wear a rubber.” —Francis Langman

  When Dad died, the author went through a fast-forward version of those five stages of grief. He didn’t realize it at the time, but thank the Lord for Dr. Waters. She told him there’d be denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. “Not for me, there won’t,” the author said. That was denial? But what he meant was that there wouldn’t be acceptance. And really, there hasn’t been. The autho
r refuses to admit that Francis is gone. Suck on that, fifth stage.

  But wait, what does that mean, that the author refuses to accept it? That he’ll be stuck in the depression stage forever? To be honest, sometimes the author thinks that is where he is and will always be. Sure, he likes to joke around, but what if that is just hiding his sadness? What if the comedy is just a way to swallow the tragedy? The tragedy that is life. And what if Anoop is right? What if the reason I don’t care about college, about life, about anything, is just because I’m depressed? Well, who wouldn’t be? Life is depressing. Shit.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Every once in a while Mom gets the idea that she should cook. It’s usually a bad idea. It’s not that she’s a terrible cook, it’s just that if you’re a fan of human food, you might want to consider takeout. Ha-ha, that’s something Dad used to say. Anyway, Mom makes some sort of weird chicken dish tonight, and it’s chewy and quite unpleasant. I’m sort of glad it’s chewy, though, so I can act as though my mouth is just very busy and there’s no way I can possibly talk. Because she is in a talking mood. Maybe it’s the wine. I’m just not in the mood to care. I don’t want to care about how her day was. I don’t want to care about the property she’s selling. I don’t want to care about any of it. My mind is on Jacques Langman and I almost mention it a dozen times. But each time I just shove another piece of chewy chicken into my mouth and keep the Jacques-talk to myself. It doesn’t seem like anything good would come from sharing. At least not until I know a little more.

  I spend a mind-numbing night watching TV. It’s some reality show about teen moms who live in a renovated house and learn to become chefs while kickboxing. Or something. I am not really paying attention. It’s okay having your mind numbed sometimes, right? Well, maybe it would be if it actually worked. I just feel restless. I head to bed on the early side, trying not to think about how big and empty the house feels. I push open the door to my bedroom, an act that becomes more difficult by the day due to the growing mountain of dirty clothes on the floor. I flop into bed and fall asleep. Just as I reach a blissful state of snoozing, I’m gently woken up by a horrible scream.