The Missing Latin Club Money

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The Missing Latin Club Money

         I don’t usually handle kid crimes, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that life is full of exceptions. Someone contacted my boss over at the Silver County Police Dept, and the next thing I know they’re sending me over to J. S. Silverton High School.

         When I arrive, my eyes scan the situation as George Mason, a pimply kid who tells me he’s the Latin’s Club’s president, fills me in on the details. I listen, trying not to stare as he hoists up sagging jeans, two sizes too big.

         “We kept the moneybox in here,” the kid says, pointing to a dented orange locker half-way down the hallway in back of the school gym. "And you gotta see this. I noticed it right away,” the boy adds, pointing to a muddy footprint on the shiny, clean flooring two lockers down.

         I examine the footprint -- size fourteen, old-fashioned tennis shoes. Interesting, but heading in the wrong direction. I survey the hall -- afterschool deserted, and then turn back to study the locker some more.

         Reaching into my back pocket, I start to do a dusting, although I’m already figuring it’s probably a waste of time; high school kids don’t have prints on file.

         George bumps me with his backpack, as he slings it around to the front. “I already did that,” he tells me, pulling out one of those kits like you can buy at a magic shop.

         I give the prints he’s handing me a look-over. They seem okay. I shrug. “Who you figure did it, George?”

         Taking a couple of steps closer to me, his backpack rams my stomach, but he doesn’t notice. He’s too busy pulling out some digital pictures he’s taken.

         “Who are they?” I ask, thumbing through the pile.

         “Members of the French Club. That one’s Damian. He’s the pres. It’d be my guess he did it.”

         Damian’s wearing a flowered shirt that looks like a bargain basement from the Hawaiian Islands. Its purple and orange flowers do nothing for Damian’s sallow complexion.

         “Why you think this Damian did it?” I ask, fingering the locker. It pops open with a tap directly under its combination lock.

         “How’d you do that?” George squawks like an indignant chicken.

         “Old trick from my high school days, kid. I see they haven’t updated the lockers.”

         “I bet that’s how the robber did it,” George says, attempting to get the locker next to his to open.

         I pretend I don’t notice and ask for some details about the moneybox. "I understand the box contained about $90, right?”

         “$94.58.”

         George isn’t having any luck with the lockers. He slams his fist hard on his last attempt and then returns to stand next to me. I notice he's missing the top button on his shirt. The buttons are done up askew.

         “Where can we find this Damian?” I ask, trying not to stare at the tatoo on George's cheek.

         George swings his backpack into position, slams his locker shut, and strides off. I follow, hoping his pants won't fall off. They slide lower each step.

         We find Damian on the second floor in room 271. The French Club is in session with thirty-four in attendance. The Latin Club, according to George, consists of only nine.

         The kids are lined up for their snack. A girl with hair the color of blue cotton candy is handing out single scoops of ice cream in paper cones. My entrance causes her to freeze.

         “I’d like to ask you some questions,” I announce.

         The girl lets out a squeek and drops the cone. Strawberry ice cream splats the feet of the boy she was about to serve.

          “S’il vous plait. Qu’es-ce que c’est? No parlez-vous francais?” says the one I figure is Damian. He’s wearing a Mickey Mouse shirt instead of the Hawaiian gardens, but the yellow skin I noticed in the picture is more vivid in person.

         “No parlez,” I snarl. “Which one of you took the moneybox?”

         The girl squeaks again; I wonder if blue hair affects one’s voice box. I keep the ice cream server in my sight, but my eyes rove about the room, looking for guilt.

         “The Latin Club’s moneybox?” Damian asks with no sound of a French accent.

         “How did you know it was the Latin Club’s?" I say, but George, attracted by either the girl with the blue hair or the smell of strawberry ice cream, forgets about the melting puddle on the floor. His passage toward the girl becomes a slide across the floor that leaves him slammed up against one of the desks.

         “Are you okay?” the girl asks, running to his side.

         George can’t speak. He gazes up at Miss Blue Hair, his eyes entranced.

         I stare at the twenties that have fallen out of his pocket.

         Stepping over the ice cream puddle, I pick the bills off the floor, and tweeze a ten that is clinging to his shirt, sticky from ice cream.

         “Interesting, isn’t it?” I say, observing George as he attempts to feign a head injury by moaning. “Exactly $90. Where’s the other $4.58 -- and the moneybox, George?”

         He opens one eye to look at me. He stutters, trying to come up with a sound excuse, but the girl interrupts him. “Stop it,” she demands, glaring at me. “Can’t you see? Poor George is hurt.”

         I can see fine.

         I offer George a hand to pull him up, but he shakes his head and allows Blue Hair to assist him. The three of us -- Jennie, I discover the girl is called – George, and I take our “au revoir” from the French Club. They don’t take notice of our departure. They’ve plunged back into their “parlez-vous” talk.

         Downstairs George “finds” the money box. The $94.58 gets placed inside, and he returns it all to his “broken-in” locker.

         I know I should probably press charges; George has cost the tax payers two hours of my time, but blue-haired Jennie has twined herself about him, and I just don’t have the heart.

         After all, the case of the missing Latin Club money is now officially closed.

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