Chapter Seven: The Principal's Office
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"Phlürb?"
Watson doesn't look at him directly, but Holmes can feel her disapproval. No surprise. Here she sits outside the principal's office like some common miscreant waiting to be scolded. Probably not something she's used to.
He, on the other hand—
"Consider it a lesson in gullibility, Watson. Those students who were attentive when I cautioned them about taking everything they hear and see at face value have learned a valuable lesson."
"And those who didn't? Who took you seriously? They're going to waste their time studying something you made up—"
"When they realize their error, they too will learn a valuable lesson."
Now she does look at him—one eyebrow lifted, her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed.
Yes, she's annoyed. He'll make it up to her later.
The door to the principal's office opens and the security guard exits. A tall man with Asian features and neatly trimmed dark hair steps to the doorway and beckons.
"Come in," he says. "I just got off the phone with Captain Gregson. Your story checks out."
"A good thing for you that it does," Holmes says as he and Watson take seats facing a large desk in the center of the room. "Your security measures at this high school are woefully inadequate. The receptionist at the front desk let us in without checking any identification and we were free to wander this campus for 27 minutes before the resource officer located us."
"Yes, well," the principal says, blustering visibly. "We're understaffed right now. Budget cuts. We had to let one of our secretaries in the front office go—"
"Penny wise and pound foolish," Holmes says promptly. "Or to put it another way, you get what you pay for."
At his side Watson rustles, her chair squeaking slightly. She's still annoyed with him, apparently.
"Be that as it may," he hurries on, "I apologize for causing you and your staff any inconvenience. Ms. Watson and I are simply here to ask a few questions, if you don't mind."
The principal steps around the desk and sits in the large black chair behind it. The only thing on the desk is a nameplate that says "Dr. Harry Cho." The walls are almost bare, with a few framed diplomas and a lithograph of the exterior of the school.
"Go ahead," he says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the edge of the desk, his fingers steepled together.
"This is your first year at Midwood?" Holmes says.
"Yeah, I was the principal at Parkdale Middle School for three years before this. Why do you ask?"
"How well did you know Ethel Jefferson?"
Harry Cho takes a deep breath. "As well as I know any of the other faculty. She'd been here a long time. She didn't much care for me."
"Nor you for her."
"I didn't like what she represented. You know, the old school way of doing things, the resistance to change."
"Yet Mrs. Jefferson had been a successful teacher for years. Ms. Watson recalls being a student in her class in high school, an experience she found both pleasurable and enlightening. Perhaps Mrs. Jefferson was merely resistant to the idea of giving up a pedagogy that served her and her students well."
Leaning back in his chair, Harry Cho says, "Everyone can improve, Mr. Holmes."
"Is that why you gave her an unsatisfactory evaluation this year?"
"That information is confidential."
"Were you hoping that she would leave if you gave her a poor rating?"
"Mr. Holmes, I can't share personnel details—"
"Was Mrs. Jefferson openly critical of your leadership, Mr. Cho? Is that the real reason you gave her low marks on her teaching?"
"Evaluations are based on multiple inputs—"
"Were you afraid that Mrs. Jefferson's criticisms would influence the rest of your staff and hold you up for negative attention to your immediate superiors?"
"I've already told you that I can't comment—"
"Surely you can see that your actions look suspiciously like retribution against a veteran teacher, someone who commanded great respect and loyalty from parents and students in this community as well as the people she worked with. Here you come, a new principal, ready to institute school reforms of dubious validity—"
"Mr. Holmes—"
Watson's hand is suddenly on his forearm and he hears her murmuring, "Sherlock. Listen—"
"—and one of your most vocal critics becomes ill over the course of a few weeks and then dies from a particularly insidious form of poisoning. Surely you can see why a few questions are in order, Mr. Cho."
The principal's face is flushed, beads of sweat across his brow.
"What do you mean, poisoned? Who said anything about poison?"
Holmes shifts in his chair and tucks his arms to his side.
"The preliminary autopsy strongly suggests that Mrs. Jefferson was poisoned. When the report is finalized, I imagine the police will pursue that line of investigation with more vigor. However, as Ms. Watson and I are consultants, we are free to proceed now."
"You're accusing me?"
"No," Watson says, looking from the principal to Holmes. "We're just asking questions."
Harry Cho runs his fingers through his hair and takes a deep breath.
"Look," he says, letting a puff of air out between his lips, "I admit she was a pain in the ass. She embarrassed me—and the school—when she wrote to the paper."
"When the Times published the teacher rankings," Holmes says, and Harry Cho nods.
"She got a lot of publicity afterwards. Reporters came by; some parent group wanted her to help organize a protest at city hall, stuff like that. The superintendent told me he'd be happier if she moved on."
"So you rigged her evaluations to make it easier to fire her."
"No. I wouldn't do that."
"Forgive me for being skeptical, Mr. Cho," Holmes says, "but you just admitted that it was in your interest to get rid of her."
"I said she was a pain in my ass, but it's not that easy to get rid of veteran teachers. Once someone has continuing contract status, they have to do something pretty egregious to get fired."
"Molest a student, embezzle school club funds," Holmes says, and Harry Cho nods. "And in Mrs. Jefferson's case?"
"She was close to being insubordinate. Not enough to fire her outright, but enough to rate her down on her evaluations. She refused to take her students to the remediation lab."
"Why was she supposed to?" Watson says, and Harry Cho shifts his attention to her.
"Freshmen who score below proficient on the regents' exams in 8th grade do a computerized drill program once a week. Teachers get the scores at the beginning of the year and schedule time in the lab."
"Perhaps she thought she could help them more in her classroom," Watson says. Harry Cho shakes his head.
"She didn't have a choice. It's required. And then there was the whole newspaper thing. She made the district look bad."
"You mean she made the district's way of assessing teachers look bad," Holmes says, and Harry Cho swivels toward him. "That is quite a different thing."
"Nevertheless," the principal says, "I didn't do anything to hurt her. I'm not that kind of person."
Holmes hears a small intake of breath from his side—Watson undoubtedly rushing to reassure Mr. Cho—who does, indeed, act distressingly innocent. Standing up abruptly, Holmes says, "Every person is capable of harming another, Mr. Cho, if given the right motivation and opportunity. Good and bad are false dichotomies, at least when talking about human beings."
As he turns to go there's a scrape of the chair on the floor as Watson stands up. He slows down, waiting.
One, two, three, four—
Harry Cho is no fool. In fact, he's a smart man, judging by the B.S. magna cum laude from the University of Pennsylvania prominently displayed on the wall behind his desk. On the opposite wall, in a place not in such clear view, is a framed assurance that he does, in fact, have an Education Specialist degree—but from a suspect online diploma mill. The absence of other items to personalize the room despite being the principal here for almost a full school year shouts out the man's insecurity about his position. Trouble with the district office? Certainly—if not while Mrs. Jefferson was alive, then looming if this investigation implicates him.
"Mr. Holmes!" the principal calls out as expected, and Holmes stops and turns.
"I didn't do anything wrong," Harry Cho says. "You have to believe me."
"What I believe," Holmes says, "is that someone murdered Mrs. Jefferson. You had both motive and opportunity."
"So did lots of other people," Harry Cho says. "You need to talk to them."
Watson glances at him and he gives her what he hopes is a clear signal to sit back down. She blinks once and does, Holmes sidling back to his own seat.
"You know something?"
The principal seems to pull into himself before answering.
"Not anything definite, but a hunch."
When he says nothing else, Holmes prompts him. "We're listening."
"You might want to check out the union rep," he says. "About a month ago they were arguing loudly in the teachers' lounge one day after school. I mean, more than usual. A real shouting match."
"The union representative frequents your school?"
"She's a teacher here. Sarah Burns. Teaches math."
"Do she and Mrs. Jefferson have a history of discord?"
"That's just it," Harry Cho says. "I thought they were good friends. Mrs. Jefferson was active in union politics."
"Perhaps the union didn't approve of her writing to the newspaper," Watson says, but Harry Cho dips his head and says, "No, they were upset with the Times posting the teacher rankings, too. I don't know why they were arguing."
"Can we speak to this math teacher?"
Instead of answering, Harry Cho stands up and takes two quick steps to his door, pulling it open.
"What's Sarah Burns doing right now?" he says to the harried receptionist juggling her attention between another phone call and someone standing in front of her desk. Placing the phone receiver down, she taps on her computer keyboard for a moment and then calls out, "She's in a CP geometry class, but she has second block planning."
"Come on," the principal says, and Holmes stands and pulls Watson's chair back to help her up. "By the time I take you to her room, the bell will ring and she can talk to you."
"That won't be necessary," Holmes says. "Ms. Watson is an alumna. If you tell us where Ms. Burns' classroom is, we can make our way there."
"Sherlock—"
"Like riding a bike, Watson. You never forget. Or rather, like a baby duckling."
"What?"
"This building is imprinted on you, indelibly pressed into your memory the same way ducklings have no real choice in learning what their parents show them. I suspect that even without the room number you could make your way to the maths department."
"Mary—" Harry Cho says, and the receptionist, now with the phone receiver braced between her shoulder and her ear, anticipates his request and says, "Room D234."
"I can find it," Watson says to Harry Cho.
"See," Holmes says as they walk together into the hallways. "I have confidence in you, Watson."
"Calling someone a baby duck is not a vote of confidence."
Her words are at odds with her tone of voice, which he would characterize as teasing or wry. He'll have to consider that later, when he has more time.
Watson leads the way to the stairwell and begins to climb, Holmes trailing behind. At the top she pauses for a moment and considers.
"The math department used to be down this way," she says, pointing left.
"And it still is, judging from the walls."
He points to a large bulletin board that says, "Happy Pi Day, 3/14" with pictures of pies drawn underneath.
"Glad to see students utilizing visual puns as memory aids," he says as they pass.
Room D234 is at the end of the hall, and as Harry Cho predicted, they arrive as the dismissal bell sounds. Lifting his hand, Holmes cautions Watson as the door swings back suddenly and a barrage of students exit. When the throng trickles to a handful, Holmes presses forward, Watson almost literally on his heels.
A short woman with close-cropped gray hair stands at the white board, erasing it. Mrs. Burns—wearing trademark teacher clothes: worn pants and shirt two seasons out of style, her shoes flat and sensible.
Glancing up she says, "Can I help you?"
"I'm Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate Joan Watson. We're consulting with the NYPD in the case of Mrs. Ethel Jefferson's death."
"The police?" Mrs. Burns says, setting the eraser on the white board tray. "Is something wrong?"
She looks so genuinely distressed that Holmes hesitates and looks around for Watson to answer. She's better at this sort of thing, at knowing how to deal with distraught strangers.
"There's a possibility that Mrs. Jefferson was murdered," Watson says, reading his intention. "We're talking to everyone who might have information we can use to find her killer."
Instead of answering, Mrs. Burns puts one hand to her chest, the other to her cheek.
"I—I—can't believe it," she says. Watson rushes forward and takes the teacher's arm, shepherding her to the nearest student desk. "I still can't believe she's dead, but I never thought—I mean, she was here one Friday and the next night she died at the reunion—"
"Yes, yes," Holmes says, "I understand it was a shock. However, as distressing as this is, I need to ask you about a verbal altercation you had with Mrs. Jefferson soon before her death."
The expression on Watson's face signals his failure at hiding his impatience.
Another thing to try to make up to her later.
Mrs. Burns leans forward and rests her forehead on the palm of her hand.
"Oh, that," she says, a note of weariness in her voice. "A stupid disagreement."
Just the kind of thing a perpetrator might say to diminish her part in a serious row. Holmes opens his mouth to say so but Watson speaks before he can.
"Can you tell us about it?" Watson says quietly, slowly. To Holmes' surprise, Mrs. Burns looks up and nods.
"I felt so bad about it," she says. "Ethel and I have been friends for years. Years! And we've never really had a serious argument before. She felt really strongly about this new teacher evaluation system—"
"The one that ranks teachers according to how their students perform on standardized tests," Holmes supplies, and again Mrs. Burns nods.
"Yes," she says, "Ethel wrote an opinion piece for the paper showing how you can predict a student's performance on standardized tests based on socio-economics. Middle class and rich kids score well. Kids living in poverty don't. That's true all over the world, not just here."
"Though many rich kids don't do well on those tests," Watson says. "And some poor kids do really well."
"As I have mentioned more than once, Watson," Holmes says, "individuals are not the same as averages. Individuals vary widely. You can only speak to trends and statistical constants when you aggregate them as a group."
Mrs. Burns props her chin on her hand.
"It's true that the tests are imperfect measures of achievement," Mrs. Burns says, "but the public demands accountability. Until we get a better instrument, we really don't have any choice but to tie student scores to teacher rankings."
"Of course you do," Holmes says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Some states have experimented with peer review evaluations that have been deemed both rigorous and valid without resorting to any standardized testing."
"Ethel would have agreed with you," Mrs. Burns says. "She was upset that the union made a deal with the school district to include student scores as part of the annual teacher evaluations."
"And that led to your verbal brouhaha."
"We had words. She accused me of selling out to the corporate reformers. In her piece in the newspaper she had some hard things to say about the union leadership. They were pretty unhappy with her."
"Unhappy enough to kill her?"
Sarah Burns' face blanches.
"We might have disagreed on policy, Mr. Holmes," she stutters, "but we were friends. We taught together for years. We worked the prom together, sponsored the quiz team together. Even recently, we headed up the school committee to choose new textbooks for the Common Core. I don't know anyone who would have hurt Ethel."
"And yet," Holmes says, "here we are. Someone did more than just hurt her. They silenced her, forever."
Mrs. Burns lowers her hand and sits back, breathing heavily.
"No," she says slowly. "I don't know anyone who would want to silence her that way. I'm afraid I can't help you."
"On the contrary," Holmes says, motioning to Watson to follow him to the door, "you've already been very helpful indeed."
The tardy bell must be imminent—the halls are practically cleared of students, teachers standing lookout in their doorways as he and Watson head back down the corridor.
"I don't get it," Watson says as she falls in step with him, "we didn't learn anything at all from Mrs. Burns. In fact, we haven't learned anything at all from anyone here today. I'd say this whole trip to school was a total waste of time."
"That's what your deductive powers have told you?"
"You can't tell me that either of the people we talked to seemed guilty," Watson says. "Not one. And not only that, their motives don't match the crime. Even if Mrs. Jefferson made someone mad or embarrassed them, she didn't do anything terrible enough to drive someone to murder!"
"For a moment there, Watson, I was worried that you might not have what it takes to be a detective after all."
He hears her give a little huff but he moves forward without making eye contact.
"However," he says, "your thought processes completely mirror my own. You are exactly right. Neither Harry Cho nor Sarah Burns is a murderer. Clueless, perhaps, or misguided, but not guilty of homicide. You saw their physical affect. They exuded guilelessness. And as you so aptly noted, they lack real motives."
Another huff from Watson.
"Like I said," she says, "a waste of time."
They start down the stairwell as the tardy bell rings, and by the time they reach the bottom, the hall is clear and quiet. Pushing the glass door into the office so they can sign back out, Holmes says, "Eliminating suspects is never a waste of time. Now we know where to look."
Pulling his nametag from his shirt, Holmes hands it to the bewildered receptionist. Watson does the same, though she lingers for a moment and says something to the receptionist before following him out the door.
"You might know where to look," she says, catching up to him on the sidewalk, "but I'm in the dark."
"It's elementary, Watson," he says, walking to the edge of the sidewalk and raising his hand to hail a cab. "We've had the necessary clues since we began this investigation. We just didn't know how to put them all together—until now."
A/N: We're getting close! Thanks for hanging in there!
Oh, and about "phlürb." When my brother was a senior in high school he once convinced a group of freshmen to take notes about "phlürb" when the teacher asked him to watch his class for him while he ran off some papers. I twisted the Newtonian physics with some symbolism and voila!—a memorable lesson! At least, I hope so!