Chapter Five: Looking for Ray

Disclaimer: Not my characters; just my mischief.

From where he stands on the sidewalk, Holmes watches as Captain Gregson knocks on the door of Mrs. Jefferson's modest brick townhouse. As expected, nothing happens. The captain raps his knuckles again on the wooden door.

"I'll check around back," Lieutenant Bell says, descending the four steps from the porch to the ground. He ducks down the narrow walkway separating the townhouse from a small duplex. A narrow neatly kept strip of grass runs along the front and side, a rollout garbage bin sitting on a concrete pad to the left of the door.

"You're sure he's here?" Captain Gregson says, making eye contact with Holmes.

"Watson and I came by two hours ago," Holmes says. "The bin was at the street. Now it is in its proper place."

"The sanitation workers could have rolled it back after they emptied it."

"Rubbish collection is in the morning on this street. Note the sign at the curb alerting residents to the schedule. Also note that although Mrs. Jefferson died two weeks ago, her grass has been recently trimmed."

"Lots of people have a yard service they pay by the month," Captain Gregson says. "Mrs. Jefferson could have paid up in advance."

True, of course. By itself, the cut grass says little. However—

Holmes waves his hand to include Mrs. Jefferson's steps and the surrounding area.

"No mail in the box, no unread newspapers on the porch. Indeed, no trash of any kind around her home. Yet if you look at the other townhouses on this block, you see evidence of the windstorm that affected this area last night after 9 PM. Paper, leaves, even in the case of her immediate neighbor, a small branch of a tree on the bottom step. Was Mrs. Jefferson's home somehow exempt from the effects of the storm? I think not. Someone cleaned up the debris this morning and rolled the bin back after the dustmen came by."

"A neighbor could be keeping an eye on her place for her," Watson says, the first time she has spoken since they arrived at Mrs. Jefferson's house. Something about being here upsets her—had upset her earlier when they came by.

She's grieving the loss of a favorite teacher, of course. But as the days since Mrs. Jefferson's death have turned into a week and now two, Watson seems to be lapsing into a different kind of melancholy, one that feels disquieting and familiar.

Grief over an unjust and unexpected death—fueled by guilt and anger.

Familiar indeed.

"A neighbor would clean his own home up too, wouldn't he? Yet Mrs. Jefferson's is singularly tidy. No, her son is here."

Lt. Bell comes around the side of the house, frowning.

"You found nothing," Holmes says, and the lieutenant looks up as Captain Gregson joins him on the sidewalk.

"Nobody's home," Lt. Bell says. "I looked through the windows in the back. Didn't see anything out of order. No lights on. I think our suspect has skipped town."

"He's here now," Holmes says, pointing to one of the upstairs windows. "That curtain was open this afternoon. Now it's closed."

"If he's here," Lt. Bell says, "why isn't he answering the door?"

"Because he's no fool," Holmes says. "He sees the police. If he hadn't realized he is a suspect before, now he knows he is. Marcus Lattimore said that Mrs. Jefferson's son has a history of trouble with the law."

"Yeah," Captain Gregson says. "Drug possession, drunk and disorderly, that kind of stuff. You're saying he's gun shy because we're here."

"It would seem so."

Holmes knows Gregson well enough to anticipate what he will do next. Without more evidence, he can't get a search warrant. His next best option is to stake out the house and catch Ray Simmons coming or going and convince him to come in for questioning.

Time-consuming tedious work.

He glances at Watson and sees her coming to the same conclusion, a pained look on her face.

Pushing past the captain and Lieutenant Bell, Holmes takes the steps up to the small porch two at a time and pounds his fist on Mrs. Jefferson's door.

"Ray Simmons!"

Craning his neck, Holmes shouts again.

"We know you are here! The NYPD has several questions for you. We can discuss them inside, or I am fully prepared to shout them to you in public. Your decision, really."

As he pauses to take a breath, Holmes hears the faint vibration of someone walking across a wooden floor inside the house. In another moment, the lock snaps back and the door swings open.

A petite young woman dressed in a bright pink kurti over skinny jeans and heels, a floral scarf pinned over her hair as a hijab, stands in the doorway.

"Yes?" she says, frowning. Her eyes travel past Holmes and her expression changes suddenly. "Joanie?"

"Daria?"

Turning slightly, Holmes watches as Watson makes her way up the steps, Captain Gregson and Lieutenant Bell following closely.

"What are you doing here?" the young woman—Daria—asks. Holmes opens his mouth to answer but Watson answers before he can.

"This is Captain Gregson and Lieutenant Bell from the NYPD, and this is Sherlock Holmes. We're looking for Ray Simmons. Does he live here?"

"He's asleep. Can I help you with something?"

The captain moves forward and says, "Miss—"

"Massoud. What's this about?"

"Captain," Watson says quickly, "this is Daria Massoud. We trained together as—"

Her words tumble together and stop abruptly as she darts a glance at Holmes. It's touching, actually, her care not to embarrass him in front of Captain Gregson and Lieutenant Bell. And totally unnecessary, considering what she's already told the captain, and which he has undoubtedly told the lieutenant.

"Sober companions," Holmes finishes for her. She raises an eyebrow in his direction and he raises one back.

See? Nothing to hide.

"Well, yes," she says, looking back to the young woman standing in the doorway. "The NYPD is treating Mrs. Jefferson's death as a homicide. Captain Gregson has some questions for her son."

"That's a relief," Daria says, leading the way into a small living room. "Ray's been so distressed. He thought no one was taking him seriously."

"I don't take your meaning," Holmes says as Daria settles on one end of the sofa and Watson sits in an adjacent chair. "Who isn't taking him seriously?"

"No one. He's been saying all along that his mother's death was suspicious, that someone needed to look into it."

Pulling out a reporter's tablet and flipping it open, Captain Gregson says, "You're saying Ray Simmons has talked to the police?"

"I don't know about the police," Daria says. "But he's been very vocal about it in rehab."

Watson leans toward Daria and says, "Rehab? When was he in rehab?"

"He called me right after his mother died, said he was checking himself in until he could keep his head on straight. He just came home two days ago."

"You have an established relationship," Holmes says. "You've worked with him previously."

Daria nods.

"Almost a year ago, the first time he was in rehab. When he came out I stayed with him for a couple of months, lived here with him and Mrs. Jefferson. He was doing so well, too, until all the trouble started."

"Trouble?" Captain Gregson says. "What kind of trouble?"

"I'm not sure," Daria says. "Something about his mother and school. Until this year, she wasn't even thinking about retiring, but Ray said she was getting beaten down."

"Is Mr. Simmons currently employed?" Holmes says, and Daria shakes her head. "This house? Is he going to continue living in it?"

"I guess."

"And who is paying your expenses as sober companion, Ms. Massoud? Or the expenses for this house? Are you aware of Mr. Simmons' financial situation?"

Daria sighs and sits back, crossing her arms, a defensive posture.

"Sherlock," Watson says, deliberately tilting her head at him to catch his eye, "that's private information. Even if Daria knows, she can't tell you that."

"She can if that information is being used to shield a murderer."

Daria uncrosses her arms and says, "You aren't accusing Ray—"

"I have no idea who killed Mrs. Jefferson," Holmes says, "but Mr. Simmons was so distressed by his mother's death that he feared relapse to the point of checking himself into rehab. Not an unusual reaction to grief, you might say, but it could also be a result of guilt from having killed the one person who always supported him, who continued to support him even though his employment record has been spotty at best. I haven't examined Mrs. Jefferson's will, but teacher retirees can draw a pension, one perk for accepting poor financial compensation during their working years. In New York public service employees can will part of their pensions to survivors—and while that might not be a princely sum, it could be enough to tempt a desperate heir—an addict, perhaps, who has been unable to piece his life together in any meaningful way—to murder."

A shuffle and a cough—and Holmes looks up to see a disheveled man leaning on the doorframe. Ray Simmons, obviously.

Like most addicts Holmes knows, Ray Simmons has the lean, ascetic build of someone who has gone through long spells of ignoring food in favor of his drug of choice. Dark hair lapped over his ears, his face unshaven, he blinks and sniffs, like someone waking up in a fog.

"What's this?"

With a fluid motion, Daria is on her feet and moving toward him, her protective stance unmistakable. Something more than a professional relationship? The question makes Holmes oddly uncomfortable.

"The police have some questions," she coos, one hand touching Ray's shoulder. He nods and follows her back to the sofa.

"About time," he says. "He made her life hell for the past few months. You can't tell me he isn't behind this."

"Who is?" Captain Gregson says, and Ray rubs his brow.

"That guy," he says slowly, "the principal at her school. All these years she's been winning awards, her students winning awards, and suddenly they say she isn't competent in the classroom? Her principal gives her two bad evaluations and says she has to attend special professional development? Give me a break."

"Why would a school principal murder someone after giving her an unsatisfactory evaluation? What would he have to gain? You, on the other hand, Mr. Simmons, have much to gain from your mother's death. Her pension, for starters. Money you can spend as you wish," Holmes says, and Ray Simmons glowers at him.

"If you're suggesting that I killed her—"

"I'm suggesting you had something to gain from her death."

Ray Simmons huffs and gives a mirthless laugh.

"I'm not even in her will. She left instructions that everything is to be sold, the money given to a scholarship fund at her school. Don't believe me? I'll give you the name of her lawyer."

If Ray Simmons has anything to do with Mrs. Jefferson's death, he hides it well, despite Holmes' attempt to get him to rise to the bait. His affect is consistent with someone grieving a loss—visible marks of sorrow and even anger in his expression. Dark circles under his eyes. A tremor and lowered register in his voice when he mentions his mother.

Shifting gears, Holmes says, "Why do you suspect her principal? Did she say anything about feeling threatened by him?"

Ray Simmons shakes his head slowly.

"Not physically," he says. "But he was pressuring her to leave. She challenged his authority and he didn't like it."

"But she was leaving," Watson says, and Ray Simmons turns his gaze to her. "If that was what her principal wanted, he got it. Why would he kill her?"

"Maybe she knew something," Holmes says. "Maybe she had information about him that incriminated him somehow."

"A high school principal? Like what?"

Captain Gregson's tone is frankly skeptical.

"Unknown," Holmes says. "You said your mother had gotten two unsatisfactory evaluations this year?"

He glances at Ray Simmons before continuing.

"And you believe those evaluations were punishment rather than accurate indicators of her performance?"

"She wasn't just a good teacher," Ray says vehemently. "She was a great one."

"Watson? You were once Mrs. Jefferson's pupil. How would you characterize her as a teacher?"

Clearly Watson is caught off guard by his question. Her face flushes and she blinks rapidly.

"She was wonderful," she says at last. "She'd give us something to read and then make us pick it apart and debate it. Books really came alive when we dug into them that way—those characters jumped off the page and were like real people in our discussions. And she'd make us write these incredibly complicated argument papers—and rewrite them until they were perfect. It was maddening, really, but it taught me things I've used ever since, like how to read and write carefully."

"Not easy stuff to evaluate," Holmes says, and Watson lifts her eyebrows.

"I guess not."

"So the principal might not have had punitive motives but could simply have been wrong about her teaching."

"Maybe—" Watson says, her nose wrinkled in thought.

"No!" Ray Simmons' voice echoes in the room. "It was more than that! It started when the Times released the teacher rankings. She was upset when that happened and wrote to the paper to complain. After her letter was published, that's when the principal jumped on her case."

"Teacher rankings?" Lieutenant Bell says, and Holmes pulls out his phone. Now that Ray Simmons mentions it, he recalls the kerfuffle in the press a year ago.

"Here," he says, reading the article he pulls up. "Last February the New York Times published the results of teacher evaluations in the city, ranking teachers from highest to lowest scorers. It's a move favored by the new school reformers in this country."

"School reformers?" Captain Gregson says, and Holmes calls up another screen on his phone.

"The school reform movement in this country dates from 2001 with the passage of what has become known as the No Child Left Behind Act. In exchange for federal monies, states were required to measure student achievement by giving regular standardized tests—despite concerns that such tests were poor indicators of genuine learning. The law mandated 100% proficiency on those tests in American schools by the year 2014, with each school district setting increasing incremental goals known as Adequate Yearly Progress. A ridiculous notion, of course. The mandate was never achievable, and the penalties for not making AYP were draconian. Teachers were fired, schools closed. Some districts resorted to cheating, most recently Atlanta, Georgia, where 35 educators were indicted for changing student test scores."

"What does that have to do with Mrs. Jefferson's principal and the rankings published here?"

"Those same standardized tests were not only used to measure student achievement but have become part of the way teachers are assessed. Again, you might ask how tests of questionable validity can be used this way, but that is one of the newest permutations of the school reform movement. One, I might add, that statisticians and psychometricians decry."

"Are you saying Mrs. Jefferson's evaluation was flawed because it was based on her students' standardized test scores?"

"I am saying that standardized tests are neither reliable nor valid ways to tell if students are learning—at least not learning more than mere content. Critical thinking, for instance, is very difficult to measure. Yet those same tests are now used in a teacher's annual evaluation."

With a flick of his thumb, Holmes calls up the Times archives and taps until he finds Mrs. Jefferson's ranking.

"If Mrs. Jefferson objected to the way the rankings were being used, it wasn't because her own was low. See? She was rated one of the best teachers at Midwood. Her objections may have been based on principle rather than any personal grievance she had with them."

"But her evaluations this year were negative—"

"Which seems to support Mr. Simmons' contention that she was being punished somehow. While the evaluations are based on standardized test results, administrator observations also factor in. Is her principal new to the school?"

"I don't know," Ray Simmons says. He leans back heavily on the sofa and Daria reaches up again to touch him, this time placing her hand on his forearm. Holmes quickly looks away, feeling like an intruder.

"Then one thing is clear," Holmes says, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

"Really?" Captain Gregson says. "Because I can't even begin to see where you're going with this."

"I'm going," Holmes says, moving toward the door, "to school."

A/N: Okay, sorry to throw so much information about school reform in America at you. I hope I didn't lose you on the way.

Thanks to everyone in this fandom for being so supportive! It's a pleasure to read and write stories here! Thanks for letting me know how I'm doing.