The Strange Parent
Viktor Dunn and Lucas Lutz happened to be questioning people in that very room. To avoid alerting their quarry, Marcus Shaw stood to the side without speaking, visually fishing the long-haired man out from among the parents and observing him covertly.
He sat slouched in the second-to-last row, his hair long—even longer than the victim's. His bangs partially obscured his eyes, making his expression hard to read. At first, his legs were spread wide apart, but when two uniformed officers took the stage, he suddenly brought his legs together and sat up straighter.
Lucas Lutz pushed up his glasses and addressed the room from the front: "As you all likely know by now, Mr. Hollis, who taught mathematics, was found dead on the third floor. The police now have reason to suspect this may be a homicide."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Lucas Lutz continued, "I'd like to ask—did anyone see Mr. Hollis this afternoon?"
The parents exchanged glances, but no one spoke.
Viktor Dunn cast a sideways look at Lucas Lutz, cleared his throat, and said: "From the time you entered the school gates until the parents' meeting officially began at one-thirty, did anyone not go directly to this classroom? Or did anyone leave this room at any point—whether to use the restroom, take a call, or anything else? Please raise your hand."
The room grew unusually quiet. At first, only two parents raised their hands. Others exchanged odd looks, and then slowly raised theirs as well.
A total of seven people raised their hands. But Marcus Shaw noticed that the long-haired man had not.
Marcus Shaw suddenly spoke up, drawing every eye in the room: "Let me add something. Anyone who left this room after the parents' meeting started also counts."
The person seen on the footage stepping out to take a call also raised his hand. But the long-haired man still didn't react, as if he wasn't even listening.
Marcus Shaw added, "Because this involves a homicide, I expect everyone to be honest. We've pulled all the surveillance footage and are screening it as we speak. Every person who left this room will be recorded. So it's best to admit it now—don't think you can slip by."
At this, another female parent raised her hand. The people next to her looked at her, and she said huffily, "I went to ask the teacher about my child's situation. I didn't do anything shameful."
Marcus Shaw recognized her as the woman who'd been talking to a teacher at the stairwell—but the long-haired man still hadn't moved. His hands were hidden from view, and he'd turned his face toward the window.
Each person who'd raised a hand gave their specific reason for leaving, and the answers fell into familiar categories: smoking, using the restroom, taking a call, seeking out a teacher for a private word. One well-groomed female parent said she'd gone to the restroom to touch up her makeup.
Marcus Shaw filed everything away in his mind, then asked the teacher to keep everyone calm. The three officers split up and made the rounds of the remaining classrooms.
After questioning every class, more than half an hour later, they'd identified four suspicious individuals, including the long-haired man. They returned to the respective classrooms and escorted these four to a conference room, then had the vice principal broadcast an announcement releasing all other parents.
Marcus Shaw also shared his phone number, asking parents to check with their children and call him if they had anything to report. The parents poured out like freed poultry, cursing under their breath, scrambling for the restrooms and then the school gates.
In the conference room, the questioning of the four parents began, and certain facts quickly emerged: one was a taxi driver who'd been working consecutive shifts without sleep and was merely drowsy, not evasive; another had been drinking before driving over and feared being caught for DUI; the third simply had a terrible temper and genuinely urgent business.
These three were released.
The long-haired man finally couldn't sit still. He stood up and bellowed, "Why am I the only one left?"
Marcus Shaw stared into his eyes and said coldly, "You know perfectly well."
The conference room was small, with only an office desk in the center, about two meters square. Several wooden chairs with peeling lacquer were arranged haphazardly around it, leaving a coating of dust on any hand that touched them. The window glass hadn't been cleaned in ages—two pigeon droppings had dried on the surface.
The long-haired man sat with his back to the window. Though sunlight streamed in, his body blocked most of it, leaving his face in shadow. Only now could Marcus Shaw see past the bangs to those deeply recessed eyes.
They were lifeless, the pupils contracted to pinpoints, the eyeballs barely moving. The effect was unsettling—so cold that it sent a shiver through Marcus Shaw.
"Tell me—why didn't you raise your hand earlier?"
Marcus Shaw got straight to the point, but the man acted as if he hadn't heard. After a long pause, he dipped his head slightly and asked, "What did you say?"
Viktor Dunn said, "Stop playing dumb."
But the man still looked blank.
Marcus Shaw paused. "Earlier in the classroom, we asked everyone who'd left the room to raise their hand. We gave you several chances. You never did."
The man's eyeballs rotated slowly. His left hand scratched his right shoulder as he said, "I don't remember leaving."
Marcus Shaw said, "Did you not hear anything I said in that classroom? We checked the surveillance. At 1:23:17, you came out of the first-floor classroom. At thirty-one seconds, you appeared at the main stairwell on the second floor and turned left. Where were you going, and what were you doing?"
The long-haired man's mouth twitched rapidly. Then, as if snapping to attention, he said, "You've already seen the surveillance—why ask me?"
Marcus Shaw was momentarily stumped.
First, the second-floor camera was poorly positioned—it couldn't capture the area after the left turn. Second, just after 1:27, all signals had gone dead. Who knew what the man had done.
But Marcus Shaw kept his expression blank, projecting the air of someone who knew everything. He continued at an unhurried pace: "Don't you understand? I'm still giving you a chance. If you confess voluntarily, it'll go easier for you later."
The long-haired man, however, seemed to operate like artificial intelligence—receiving the instruction, processing it through a calculation, and only then pulling up the corners of his mouth to reveal a few yellow teeth in a grin: "I thank you for the opportunity. If you think I did something I shouldn't have, then handle it however you see fit. Please, don't hold back on my account."
Lucas Lutz gave a cold laugh, snatched the notebook from Marcus Shaw's hand, scanned it, and said, "Why didn't you use the restroom on the first floor? Why go all the way to the second floor?"
Again, the long-haired man didn't react. He seemed frozen. It was impossible to tell if he'd heard, and even harder to read his expression. Lucas Lutz repeated the question, and only then did he say, as if belatedly, "Because I felt like it."
This time it was Viktor Dunn's turn to laugh out loud.
Lucas Lutz slammed his notebook onto the table, kicking up a cloud of dust that danced in the sunlight.
The three officers leaned back. The long-haired man remained unmoved—his mind like a slippery snake, impossible to grasp.
Lucas Lutz said, "I suggest you watch your attitude and answer the police's questions properly. Evasion is useless. Don't waste everyone's time."
After a while, the long-haired man said, "But it is a waste of time. Someone didn't flush on the first floor—the stench was unbearable. So I went to the second floor. That's it."
"That simple?"
The long-haired man turned his face to the side, leaned back in his chair, and bounced one leg. "Oh, I see—this officer prefers complicated answers. Would you like me to make one up? Give you eighty-one tribulations. As complicated as you want."
Lucas Lutz's face flushed red. He adjusted his posture and said nothing more.
Marcus Shaw asked, "After using the restroom, what else did you do?"
The long-haired man slowly turned his head, glanced at Marcus Shaw, then looked away and said, "I had a cigarette."
Marcus Shaw thought of the cigarette butt. "You smoked by the window?"
"What, the school's surveillance is that good? They've got cameras in the restrooms now?"
Marcus Shaw said nothing, noticing that the long-haired man's other leg had started bouncing too.
After a moment, Marcus Shaw suddenly said, "We found your fingerprints on the door handle of the small staircase at the far end of the second floor."
Not only the long-haired man—Lucas Lutz and Viktor Dunn also stared with wide eyes.
"What small staircase? What door handle?"
Marcus Shaw observed the long-haired man's expression and felt that he genuinely seemed not to know. He decided to keep bluffing to test his reaction: "You took that small staircase up to the third floor. What did you do up there?"
"What small staircase? What are you talking about?"
Silence filled the room.
Marcus Shaw crossed out a few lines in his notebook and said, "Let's talk about your daughter instead. Has she told you anything? Or has she shown any unusual behavior?"
The long-haired man sat up a little straighter. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason—just a casual question."
"She goes straight to her room when she gets home—plays games, listens to music. Nothing unusual that I can see."
"Does she come home on time?"
The long-haired man thought for a long time and said, "There might have been a few times she was a little later than usual."
"Might have?"
Just then, a female teacher knocked on the door and said the victim's wife had arrived and was in the first-floor meeting room. The vice principal was asking them to come down.
Marcus Shaw stood up. "I'll go—just need to ask about the victim."
As soon as he stepped out, Viktor Dunn followed, tipping his head toward the room. Marcus Shaw understood, and the two went together.
Before they even reached the door, a woman's wailing came snaking out of the meeting room. Her crying rose and fell in elaborate, melodic arcs—broken notes with rhythmic precision, like a performance of some traditional folk art.
When the two men entered, she was sitting on the floor, ignoring the vice principal's attempts to comfort her. Her legs thrashed, smearing dust on her black leggings, and one high-heeled sandal had been flung far away.
Catching sight of Viktor Dunn in his police uniform, she briefly stifled her cries and looked up with her makeup-streaked oval face. Her eyes, ringed with dark tear tracks, blinked once—then she lunged forward, dropping to her knees at an angle, and seized Viktor Dunn's arm: "Officer, you have to get justice for me."
Then, like a needle dropping onto an old record, she resumed her plaintive wailing, leaving Viktor Dunn flustered and at a loss.
Marcus Shaw said, "Please get up and speak."
She didn't budge. Her crying climbed again, rising by two octaves.
Marcus Shaw had no choice but to say, "You're on your knees—people will get the wrong idea. If you need to cry, sit in a chair and cry."
The vice principal jiggled her bulk over and with difficulty bent down to help the woman up. Seeing that she was still clutching Viktor Dunn, Marcus Shaw pulled over a chair for her.
Only then did she lower her volume, though a thin stream of air still caught in her throat. She collapsed into the chair like a melting wax figure, swiped at her smudged eyeliner, and said: "My husband was so dedicated, so honest and kind. He worked himself to death on the job. The school has to give me an explanation—they can't wriggle out of this."
She smeared her face even more—it looked like a coal miner's after a shift. The crying swelled again, as if it had taken root in her body.
At those words, the vice principal bristled. She wiped sweat from her own face and corrected in a ringing voice: "Mr. Hollis was murdered. He didn't die of overwork. You can't go spreading nonsense."
Mrs. Hollis's eyes blazed with fury, as if they could shoot arrows: "He still died at the school! No matter how you spin it, you can't dodge responsibility!"
She broke into loud wails again and reached for Viktor Dunn's hand. He couldn't very well pull away, but holding it was equally awkward—his face flushed, caught in a dilemma.
Marcus Shaw intervened: "The school does bear responsibility, but the most pressing matter right now is catching the killer. Everything else can be discussed later."
This reminder seemed to jolt Mrs. Hollis into clarity. "Right, right—catch the killer. But the school leadership needs to come up with a plan quickly too."
The vice principal puffed her cheeks but said nothing.