Authors: Alan Weisz
After going over a few minor details about Harvey’s obituary with Sister Robinson, I went to get started on the piece.
I punched in the four-digit code and entered the abandoned newsroom. For about thirty to forty minutes, I was able to recreate Harvey’s life, highlighting his positive characteristics while leaving out informational tidbits such as his tendency to rape girls. As much as I did want to reveal his true nature in my piece, I believe that by revealing my true nature to Harvey, my inner demons had been fed and justice served. The world didn’t need to know about Harvey Cho because he received his just deserts in the end.
As I was closing the piece with the details about Harvey’s service at the Chapel of Christ the Teacher, Hayley and Victoria walked into the newsroom discussing the latest fashion trends addressed in this week’s
Glamour
, the magazine these two subscribers followed religiously.
I sat at my desk carelessly listening as the girls continued to talk about jeggings, a term I had to Google later in the evening (basically jean leggings or very tight fitting skinny jeans), until they noticed my presence.
After an always-cheerful “hello” from the dreaded ex, Victoria greeted me. “Hey Yorky, what’s my favorite senior scumbag up to?”
“
Just working on Harvey Cho’s obituary,” I replied, in a dull tone.
“
How’d you get so lucky with a second obit article? You slipping that nun a little something on the side?” Vickie asked. With a lighthearted smirk I knew Vickie didn’t really care that I was writing this piece, but the look of disappointment was clear as Hayley’s extended bottom lip gave off the impression she was a sulking adolescent.
“
I got talent and I got tits, and I can sure as shit write a damn fine obit!” Vickie said, illustrating how ghetto fabulous she could be at times. Remembering Hayley was by her side she quickly added in a not-so-street manner. “I meant we can. But you’ve got mosquitoes bites rather than tits, girl. I’m sorry, but you know it’s true.”
“
Hey!” Hayley said, puffing out her bottom lip even more, as she continued to pout.
“
She didn’t even talk to either one of us about writing that up. Divas don’t get no love,” Vickie said, reverting back to her Missy Elliot alter ego. Vickie liked to fool crackers like myself into thinking she was a home girl that liked listening to T-Pain and Lil Wayne, but I knew better. Like Hayley and I, Vickie was guilty of “frontin” as her peeps would say. Despite her constant vulgarity, she was too classy to be a fan of the rap game. Since Michael Buble appeared on her iTouch more than any other artist, it was clear that like the two other members of our elite news squad, she loved to put on a false persona.
“
Still, I don’t get why the nun didn’t let Hayley write the piece,” Vickie said. “Unless maybe she let you make the decision as to who got to write this piece. If that was the case, were you being your typical selfish self or do you have something against my girl here?”
Similar to a child entirely too intelligent for her own good, ever since she learned about my gut retching breakup with Hayley, Vickie liked to tease me with questions such as this one. She was begging for mommy and daddy to throw down in front of her, but like responsible parents, Hayley and I never demeaned one another in public. Like any proper gossiper, we always talked smack behind one another’s backs.
“
I have nothing against Hayley, I imagine Sister Robinson just didn’t want the masses to be whipped into a frenzy by your article,” I said.
“
And how may I ask, would I go about whipping the masses into a frenzy?” Hayley asked, ever so polished and polite.
“
You were dying to express your insights about Brent’s murder last semester. Sister Robinson is under the impression that you may conjure up a similar notion about Harvey’s death, stating it was not purely accidental.”
“
Was it Sister Robinson who was under that impression or was it you?” Hayley asked, exhibiting a rare glimmer of hostility.
“
We both know how capable you are of writing a piece that startles one’s mind and imagination. Sister Robinson wanted this piece to be clear cut, not leaving room for individual interpretation.”
“
I apologize but my aptitude for truth-telling provides my readers with a clearer understanding of the story. I will not deprive them of information I find relevant. I believe students should have the ability to come up with their own conclusions based on the given facts.”
“
Well, the facts in this case are pretty straight forward,” I replied.
“
In this instance, I imagine they are…probably,” Hayley said, leaving the probably hanging in the air, as though she knew more than she was leading on.
She had sent that text at an unpleasantly early hour in the morning. Perhaps she talked to the coroner or a member of the police department. How had she found out about his death a mere six hours after I left him to die as the Viagra coursed through his veins? If Sister Robinson informed Hayley about the event, she definitely would have allowed her to write the piece, but here I was writing it. That meant that I was the first person she told about Harvey’s death.
I doubted she was stalking me, unless she was as stealthy as a covert op, but spotting those golden locks was a breeze so that seemed highly unlikely. Meaning, the only viable option was that she ran into someone responsible for cleaning up my mess.
Still, if the coroner had found something of importance he would have relayed that information onto Sister Robinson, right?
As I began to think about the matter, it was entirely possible that the police or the coroner might only give out the basics about Harvey’s murder. What was the sense in filling troubled minds with more troubles? The university big wigs had already flipped shit over Brent’s death, why tell them about Harvey too?
Then again, maybe I was the one being a worrywart. I had left nothing behind, besides the empty bottle of FIJI water, but my prints weren’t on it. If the police found evidence suggesting Harvey’s case was more than an “unfortunate accident” why wouldn’t they use the resources of the USE staff to help solve the case.
I was probably being paranoid. Hayley didn’t have anything, and even if she did, I bet it was the water bottle or the empty sample pack of Viagra. I suppose with her charm she could have persuaded someone at the scene to answer a question or two, but what was she going to find out? That Harvey died clutching his ding-dong? That he liked having rock hard erections?
Sitting at my desk, I finished Harvey’s obit, ignoring the chatter from the girls as they were collaborating on a separate article for this week’s paper. I decided it was best not to stress over the matter. Harvey was dead, plain and simple. If I was going to get away with it, I’d get away with it, and if I didn’t then I had my ticket punched for a one-way trip to a maximum security prison.
Chapter Fifteen
S
pring semester showers brought more than precipitation as more and more students at St. Elizabeth exhibited aloof behavior during the weeks after Harvey’s tragic overdose. The constant rain dampened both the students’ clothing and spirits, but this year the mood was especially melancholy. The frequency in which hardcore partiers bragged about last weekend’s epic occurrences declined, as did the ability of campus gossipers to speak ill of anyone. Lexie and Selina, the most slanderous bitches I knew, talked about class projects and graduate school applications more than classmates’ fashion miscues. Even the always-obscene Victoria cut back on the number of expletives that escaped her lips.
Admittedly, it felt a little weird being the only person on campus besides Hayley with a radiantly upbeat morale. Unlike Hayley, concealing my pleasant mood was somewhat of a necessity to make sure my classmates wouldn’t think me overly peppy. There was no question about it, I was feeling rather smitten for getting away with two homicides, a few counts of theft, and tons of shrewd lies. I imagine overconfident, smug individuals like Spencer Pratt or Kanye West wake up each morning, their arm around the latest lucky recipient of an STD and think to themselves, “I’m one badass motherfucker,” as they proceed to purchase pimped out bling and tweet about their extravagate lives.
Waking up sprawled out alone on my bed may sound depressing to dependent relationship-aholics, but I preferred it. Due to my selfish only child tendencies I’ve never been one for sharing, especially the covers in the middle of a cold winter’s eve nor I am one for sharing details of my personal life on the world wide web. Since Twitter informs the entire world about petty events such as the latest shoe acquisition, the social networking site is not particularly a sociopath’s best friend. A tweet such as, “I straight up murdered Brent Crane, Hellyah!” comes across as a little arrogant. Besides, the world didn’t need up to the minute updates on Wayne York’s extracurricular activities. My demons and I were content on maintaining the secrets.
After singing the latest iTunes chart topper or a Kelly Clarkson classic in the shower, depending upon the time crunch before class, I would usually head off to Starbucks to splurge on one of my non-demonic vices. I didn’t have a hundred grand or a diamond-encrusted pinky ring, but a cold frappuccino in my hand wasn’t the worst alternative.
Some mornings I brought along textbooks and note cards, other mornings my time was spent mindless Facebook stalking my friends or acquaintances. Whether I was in the midst of studying, or reading a status update one thought continued to scurry in and out of my head like a fat prairie dog constantly checking to see whether or not the coast was clear. It was the same thought a star athlete believes while holding up that championship trophy, or the opinion that comes into a multi-platinum selling artist’s brain when his track hits the top spot on the
Billboard
charts. It is the notion of being the absolute best.
In my case, I wouldn’t spend my free time shooting the breeze with daytime talk show hosts or blowing kisses as I passed through a parade thrown in my honor. No plaques would be displayed on my mantle and no award acceptance speeches would be given.
Without one iota of acknowledgment from my peers, I still felt pretty damn good about my achievements. If one could actually label what I had done as an accomplishment. Let’s be honest, killing people is easy. Hundreds of Americans are shot in robberies, drive-bys and inadvertent hunting accidents every year, but as shown by the number of people locked behind bars, not many get away with the deed.
It is true that no one can really know how often individuals get away with murder. Murders don’t blog about deceiving their victims or the police, but if they did, I’d certainly subscribe to their pages.
As many college students find their calling during their four-year academic stint, I believed I had finally found mine. All along, I sensed I was different, yet I never ventured far from my parents’ or instructors’ path. I thought I was destined to live my life according to the Ten Commandants in an attempt to better society. Now I see, I wasn’t meant to improve the community by being a good Catholic, I was meant to rid the world of disingenuous trash, like Harvey and Brent. I was a garbage man, which to most is a horrid profession, but for the first time in my life I felt as though I was being true to myself. Not only that, but I was beginning to think that I was the best waste removal expert this side of the Mississippi.
I guess like the majority of egocentric individuals, I was in need of praise for cleaning the filth from Portland’s streets. Saying I needed a high-five or small bronze medal for my feats sounds strange, even to a killer, but I so strangely craved it. I felt like a heavyweight champ, unable to show his monstrous belt in pride. But since I had selected this bilious path, showing off to my fellow classmates was not an option. With fist pounds and back pats out of the question, indulging in my favorite blended coffee drink was my only option.
As the weeks turned into months, my ego was steadily growing just like the gross accumulation of Starbucks reward points. The reason for the increasing arrogance was due mostly to the lack of development in either case.
Literally a week after his death, Harvey fell into obscurity. Many found him to be as big of a tool as I did, so few tears were shed for the little creep and those with moist eyes soon began to forget about him. Unlike Brent’s death, the Portland police didn’t lurk around the campus weeks after the incident questioning students and investigating leads. Not a soul considered any other cause of death aside from accidental overdose.
The dreaded ex, the one who always second guessed conclusions and theories, even seemed to think the case was closed, or at least it appeared that way since she never mentioned Harvey at
Gazette
meetings. He was rotting in a casket far beneath the ground and yours truly was the only one clued in on why the dirt bag was now worm chow.