Chapter 3 – Peter Parker Needs a Really Good Lawyer

MURDERED TEACHER IDENTIFIED

Special Report to the Bulletin

By T. J. Mason

The teacher found dead in his classroom at the Midtown School of Science and Technology two days ago has been identified as Daniel Robertson, 42, of Brooklyn Heights. In a statement issued early this morning, the Medical Examiner's Office ruled the manner of the educator's death was "homicide," but declined to divulge further details of their findings, citing the ongoing police investigation. The NYPD was similarly tight-lipped. Detective Lieutenant Brett Mahoney of the 15th Precinct would say only that detectives were analyzing the evidence and would be conducting follow-up interviews with witnesses and persons of interest in the coming days. He had "no comment" when asked if police had identified a suspect, saying only that further information will be disclosed when appropriate.

Robertson taught chemistry at Midtown Tech, as the school is commonly called, where he had been a member of the faculty for nine years. He earned a Ph.D. in organic chemistry at Cornell University. In a statement issued yesterday, the school's principal, Kenneth Morita, said, "Dan Robertson was a brilliant scientist and a gifted teacher. He had a love of learning and a passion for advancing scientific knowledge, both of which he passed on to his students. He will be greatly missed. When classes resume, counselors will be available to assist students who are having difficulty coping with his loss. All of us at Midtown Tech – students, faculty, staff, and administration – extend our deepest sympathy to Dan's parents and his fiancée."

After being closed for two days due to the police investigation, the school reopened this morning. ###

# # # #

In third-period English, Peter tuned out the teacher, who was droning on about Julius Caesar. He wasn't interested in Shakespeare. Ever since he heard about Mr. Robertson, he had been consumed by the need to understand the teacher's odd behavior that last afternoon – the last of the man's life – when Peter was serving detention in his classroom. Why was he so anxious for Peter to leave? And what was in that notebook? He went over these questions in his mind, again and again, but he was no closer to finding the answers.

A loud male voice jolted him out of his reverie. "Peter Parker," the man demanded. Peter looked up to see two uniformed police officers, a man and a woman, standing in the doorway. He raised his hand slowly. "You need to come with us," the man said, taking a step into the classroom.

The teacher interrupted him. "Wait a minute. What's this about? Where are you taking him?"

"Police business," the cop snapped. "15th Precinct."

As Peter started to stand up, Tyler reached out and put a hand on his arm. "I'm calling Matt," he whispered. "Don't say anything until he gets there."

"Got it," Peter replied.

By the time he was on his feet, the two cops were standing next to him. The man spun him around and cuffed his hands behind his back. The woman grabbed his arm and propelled him toward the door.

"Just a damn minute," the teacher protested. "This is uncalled-for. There's no need for handcuffs. Your superiors will be hearing about this."

The cops ignored him. Peter could hear the buzz of his classmates speculating as the door closed behind him.

# # # #

Matt Murdock, attorney at law, strode into the 15th Precinct and went directly to Brett Mahoney's office, not waiting for the required escort or visitor's pass. The desk sergeant rolled his eyes but let him pass without challenging him. He marched into Mahoney's office without knocking. "What the hell, Brett?" he snapped.

Mahoney sighed wearily. "Good morning to you, too." He waved a hand at the only chair not piled high with files and paperwork. "Have a seat."

Matt ignored the invitation. He folded his cane and set it next to his briefcase on the chair but remained standing, his hands on his hips. "Really? Cuffing a 15-year-old and dragging him out of class? What were you thinking?" he demanded, giving the detective his best approximation of a glare.

"I didn't order that," Brett asserted.

"I don't care who ordered it. They were out of line." Matt picked up his folded cane and pointed it in Mahoney's general direction. "And I better not hear that your people have been interrogating my client."

Brett shook his head. "He won't even tell them his name – which they're allowed to ask, by the way."

"Good. Now, are you going to tell me what's going on?"

Brett leaned back in his chair. "We just want to talk to the kid, that's all. He's the last person that we know of who saw that teacher alive. We're hoping he saw or heard something, anything, that might point us in the right direction. 'Cause I'm tellin' you, we got nothin'."

"All right. I need to talk to my client."

Matt followed Brett down the hall to an interview room. As they entered, the boy seated at the table tried to stand. Metal clinked.

"Uncuff my client," Matt ordered.

At a nod from the lieutenant, the officer seated across the table complied.

"Now leave us," Matt said.

After the door closed behind him, Matt went very still with his head tilted toward the hallway. When he was satisfied that Brett and the officer had left and weren't going to try to listen in, he stepped to the table and held out his hand. "Matt Murdock."

Peter hesitated, then grasped Matt's hand and shook it. "Peter Parker. You're my lawyer?"

"I am," Matt replied, taking a seat, "if you want me to represent you."

"Yes, please."

"Then I'm your lawyer."

"I remember you, from the first day of school. You were there, with Tyler."

Matt nodded. "I was." He placed his folded cane on the table in front of him before he continued. "Before we begin, you need to know that anything you tell me as your lawyer is privileged. No one can force you to tell them what you told me, and no one can force me to tell them what you told me. It's called the attorney-client privilege."

"OK."

"But before we talk," Matt continued, "we need to contact your aunt – Tyler said you lived with your aunt, right?"

Peter nodded, them remembered Matt couldn't see him. "Uh, yes, that's right."

"We need to contact her and let her know what's happening."

"No! You can't!"

"You're 15 years old, Peter. I have to, it's the law," Matt explained. "If I don't, the cops will. Who do you want to call her, me or the cops?"

Peter groaned. "I'm gonna be grounded for the rest of my life," he said miserably.

"Look on the bright side. Only three years till you're 18," Matt observed as he held out his phone. "Put her number in. Yours, too."

Peter tapped the screen and handed the phone back to Matt. He pressed a button on the phone and said, "Call May Parker," then waited silently until someone answered the call. "Ms. Parker? . . . My name is Matthew Murdock. I'm an attorney, and I'm here at the 15th precinct with your nephew Peter. . . . Yes, he's OK, he's right here. Do you want to speak with him?"

Matt held out the phone to Peter, who took it in a shaking hand. "Aunt May?"

"What the hell is going on, Peter? What are you doing in a police station with some lawyer?"

Having no answers to his aunt's questions, Peter pounced on her last words. "He's not some lawyer, he's a friend of Tyler's. You know, Tyler from school."

"All right. But you didn't answer my question. What are you doing in a police station?"

"I don't know, Aunt May," Peter said miserably. "No one will tell me anything."

Matt held out his hand for the phone. Peter placed it in his hand. Matt listened for a moment, then said, "Yes, I can explain, but I think it's best if we speak in person. Can you come here? . . . Good. In the meantime, with your permission, I'd like to go ahead and speak with Peter. . . . All right. See you soon."

He ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket. "She's on her way." He stood up and went to the door and knocked. "His aunt's on her way," he told the officer who opened it. "Send her in when she gets here."

The officer grunted something that sounded like "yeah" and closed the door. Matt resumed his seat across the table from Peter and tilted his head toward his client, listening to his heartbeat. He needed to get a baseline before asking any questions, so he could tell when the boy was telling the truth. When he heard it, he had to suppress a shocked gasp. Peter's heartbeat was unlike any he'd ever heard. It was rapid, too rapid even for an adolescent. Its rhythm was . . . different, not the regular "lub, lub" he was accustomed to hearing. It was . . . syncopated, that was the word. And its sound was high-pitched. It almost didn't sound human. Matt dismissed the thought and expanded his focus to the other physical signs his senses could detect. All of them – breathing, body temperature, blood pressure, metabolism – were elevated, well above what Matt considered "normal." He supposed it could be stress, but as a lawyer, he dealt with stressed-out people all the time. This wasn't stress, and Peter didn't seem to be ill. It was . . . something else. What was going on with this kid?

That question would have to be answered later. Right now, he had a job to do. He raised his head and said, "Your aunt said it was OK to talk to you now, before she gets here. Is that OK with you?"

"Yeah, sure, I guess," Peter said hesitantly.

"Good. First, did that officer – " Matt only got that far before Peter interrupted him.

"Wait a minute. Am I in trouble? Am I gonna be arrested? Do they think I killed Mr. Robertson? What's gonna happen to me? Am I going to go to jail?"

Matt held up a hand to stop the flood of questions. "No," he said, "not as far as I know. When I got here, I talked to the detective in charge of the case, and he said they wanted to talk to you because you're the last person they know of to see the victim alive."

"You mean, the last person except the killer," Peter pointed out.

"Right." Damn, the kid was sharp. "You could be an important witness. But I can give you better answers after we talk."

"OK."

"First of all, did that officer who was in here with you question you?"

"He tried to, but I wouldn't tell him anything."

"Damn cops," Matt muttered under his breath. Then he raised his voice and said, "Good. So, how do you know the victim?"

"I was in his class."

"Which was – ?"

"Sophomore chemistry, first period. Oh, and I also had him for freshman chemistry last year."

"When did you last see him?"

"After school, that day. I had detention with him."

"Detention?" Matt asked, surprised, "What for?"

"Um, I was, uh, I was late to class a few times. Forgot to set my alarm," Peter said sheepishly.

"So you report for detention after school. What time was that?"

"About 3:00, 3:15, I guess. I talked to my friends for a few minutes, before, you know."

"Who were they?"

"Ned, uh, Ned Leeds, and Michelle Jones, and Tyler."

"OK. And where did you go for detention?"

"Mr. Robertson's classroom."

"What happened when you got there?"

"He had me washing the glassware, you know, beakers and test tubes, and stuff, from the lab."

"You did that the whole time?"

"Yeah."

"Was anyone else there, doing detention with you?"

"No, it was just me."

"Were you mad at Mr. Robertson – for giving you detention, I mean?"

"What? No. I deserved it. It was my fault I was late." Peter's heartbeat didn't change, but it was still rapid, too rapid, just as it was when Matt first heard it. Would it speed up even more if he was lying? Matt didn't know.

"What was Mr. Robertson doing while you were washing the glassware?"

"Nothing much, just sitting at his desk. He had his laptop out and was looking at it some of the time. There were a bunch of papers on the desk, too, but he didn't look like he was reading them or anything," Peter replied.

"Did anyone come into the room while you were there?"

"No, but – " Peter went very still for a moment, before he went on. "But there was . . . something, I don't know if it's important, but . . . ." His voice trailed off.

"Let me be the judge of that. Please, go on," Matt told him, waving his hand.

"It's probably nothing," Peter began, sounding doubtful. "But he seemed, well, nervous, the whole time I was there. He was, like, fidgeting, looking at his phone. And he kept looking at the clock, like he wanted the hour to be over so I would leave."

"All right. Was there anything else that seemed unusual?"

Peter fell silent again. Finally, he said hesitantly, "Yeah, I guess."

"Go ahead," Matt encouraged him.

"When I first got there, he seemed, I don't know, like, surprised when I opened the door. I saw him putting something in his pocket. It was a small notebook, dark blue or black, I think. I'm not sure why, but he looked like he was hiding it, like he didn't want me to see it. Then when I was leaving, I saw him out of the corner of my eye, pulling out the notebook, like he'd been waiting for me to leave before taking it out again."

"He didn't take it out while you were there?"

"No."

"And he didn't say anything about it?"

"No."

"Did anything else happen while you were in detention?"

"Not really. When I was leaving, he gave me some notes on the part of the class I missed that morning, and told me not to be late again."

"Was that unusual, for him to give you notes on what you missed?"

"Yeah, it was. I usually ask Ned or MJ if I can copy their notes. Or Tyler. His notes are usually the best, because he has that note-taking thing. . ." Peter stopped, remembering who he was talking to. "I guess you know about that."

Matt smiled. "I do." He had, in fact, bought it for Tyler when he started high school last year.

"Anyway, he can print out his notes from it."

"Yes, I know. Going back to that afternoon, what happened when you left?"

"I went to my locker and got my stuff, then signed out at the front door and left."

"Did you see anyone in the hallway after you left the classroom?"

Peter shook his head. "No. There wasn't anyone at the sign-out desk, either."

"So, you left the school and went – where?"

"Home."

"That's in Queens, right?"

"Right."

"And you live there with your aunt?"

"Yes."

"Was your aunt there when you got home?"

"No, she was working."

"Where?"

"At F.E.A.S.T. She was working the swing shift, 3 to 11."

"What did you do during the evening?"

"Nothing." Matt raised his eyebrows. "I mean, nothing much. Did my homework, watched TV, texted with Ned, that kind of thing."

"You didn't go out?"

Peter's heartbeat fluttered for an instant, then returned to normal, or what apparently passed for "normal" for him. "No," he replied. "Stayed in all night."

The door flew open, and a woman rushed in – Peter's Aunt May, he presumed. She crossed the room to her nephew and enveloped him in a hug. "Are you OK? What did they do to you?"

"Nothing," Peter assured her, "I'm OK." May gave him a skeptical look. "Really."

May turned to Matt. "The people at the school told me the cops dragged Peter out of class in handcuffs. Bunch of gorillas. We should sue them. Can we sue them?"

Matt gave her a half-smile. He'd lost count of the number of times clients had asked him that question. "Maybe," he replied, "but let's get Peter out of here first."

"Why is he even here?" May demanded.

"According to the detective in charge of the case, Lieutenant Mahoney, Peter's the last person – except the killer – to see the victim alive," Matt explained. "Mahoney says they're only interested in him as a witness."

"So he's not a suspect?"

Matt shook his head. "Not as far as I know."

"Then why drag him out of class in handcuffs?"

"Mahoney claims he didn't order that."

"Yeah, right," May scoffed.

"I've known Mahoney for years. That's really not his style," Matt told her. "I think it probably was the uniforms. Some cops just like throwing their weight around, especially with people who can't fight back."

"Maybe," May replied, sounding unconvinced.

"Anyway, I recommend we go ahead and let Mahoney ask his questions. I'd be happier if there was someone who could corroborate Peter's testimony about when he left school and what he did for the rest of the day, but I think Peter's credible, and Mahoney probably will, too. If things become hostile, I can terminate the interview at any time. All right?"

"All right," Aunt May replied.

"OK," Peter replied at the same time.

Matt turned to Peter. "I want you to answer Mahoney's questions, but listen to the questions carefully and only answer the questions. Don't volunteer any information. Especially, don't volunteer an explanation if he hasn't asked for one. It makes you look defensive, like you're hiding something, or he's hit a nerve. Got it?"

Peter nodded. "Got it."

"Just tell the truth, and we can get out of here," Matt concluded, before he went to the door to let the officer outside know they were ready for the lieutenant.