Trouble School

08}}Golf, I Mean Nolf

1999

Fred scowled at the door across the hall. What the fuck kinda questions were those?

He didn't feel like going back to sit in a room in dead silence, feeling awkward as all hell. But he did have to "send the next one in." Whatever.

He'd pass the message on to Cliff, then he'd skip out and go find an empty room to loiter in and have a smoke. He could definitely use a smoke right about now.

So that's what he did. He opened the door, said, "Cliff," jerked his head in a 'go take your turn' way, and then turned on his heel and headed down the hall. He didn't bother waiting for a response, or even acknowledgement. He just left.

He heard the door shut behind him, footsteps, and then another door opening and shutting. No pause, no call. Obviously Cliff didn't give two flying fucks what Fred did.

Good.

That simplified things.

The large windows at the end of the hall were near white with the blinding summer sun outside, though the longer Fred stared at it, and the closer he got, the better he could see what was outside. He stopped directly in front of the old glass, staring down at the numerous police cars and officers that were bustling about down below. There were a few guys with cameras, and 'FORENSICS' on the backs of their T-shirts. Some guys in blue uniforms with silver badges and guns and walkie-talkies.

It was all a lot of well-organized chaos.

Fred stepped away from the window, and turned towards the stairs on the left. He started towards them slowly, waiting for his eyes to re-adjust to the dim interior of the building after staring outside. The stairs led up to the the third, unused floor. There would undoubtedly be plenty of great hiding places up there where he could have a smoke to calm his nerves.

His foot landed on the first stone step as he scratched at the back of his neck, and then he froze.

He poked his head outside the stairwell, peering down the hallway. There was still a purple-ish after-image from the sunny outdoors over his vision, and he couldn't tell if there was anyone there or not.

He ducked back into the stairwell, squeezing his eyes shut and focusing on his hearing. There was the faint murmur of voices and activity from outside, but other than that... Nothing. He tried looking down the hallway again, but though his vision had cleared some, he still couldn't see all the way to the other end of the hall.

Of what he could see, there was nothing to indicate the presence of human life.

He waited longer, closing his eyes to help them adjust faster. Again he looked down the hallway, the itch between his shoulder blades having never once faded.

Not a soul in sight.

So why the hell was he so sure he wasn't alone?

{ { o } }

Klocke found himself pacing back and forth across the small classroom, his partner casting him occasional glances. He knew he should sit down, be calm, etcetera etcetera. But he couldn't stop wondering what Norgaard had wanted to ask the young Ms. Rath that had required privacy. The entire school staff had already been gathered in the room next to the kids.

He didn't need to find them. That had already been done.

So what had Norgaard asked her? He'd told Klocke that he'd "fill him in," and he had, but...

But for some reason Klocke didn't think his partner had told him everything. Klocke had glanced at the man's notes, too, but there was nothing to indicate that he'd learned more than he'd shared.

And why wouldn't he?

Klocke shook his head, deciding that he was just being paranoid. He sighed, finally sitting down in the desk nearest his partner. They'd already finished questioning the teachers.

They'd come up bone dry.

No pun intended.

The people here now had no connection whatsoever to the skeleton that the kids had tripped over behind the school.

Norgaard eyed him suspiciously. "Everything okay, kid?"

He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling a bit sheepish. "Yes. Sorry. It's been an... a weird day."

Norgaard snorted. "I hear ya, kid. How's about we go pester Golf for some useful information, hm?"

Klocke couldn't help the slight huff of laughter that escaped him. Mark Nolf was the forensic intern that Connolly had hired around the time that Klocke had been promoted to Detective. Connolly herself had finally retired only a month or two ago; Klocke had been at her 'going away' party. So had Nolf, and Norgaard and him had never gotten along.

Of course, that was mostly because of the nickname that Norgaard had given the short African American man.

Golf. A change of only one letter, but still a change nonetheless. Nolf hated it. Which was exactly why Norgaard insisted on calling him that.

Norgaard and Klocke stood in unison, and headed for the door.

{ { o } }

"Bad news, dude," Nolf said to Klocke as soon as he caught sight of them. He completely ignored Norgaard, not that the man seemed to care. Norgaard went off on his own, soldier-blue eyes scanning around.

Klocke watched him go before returning his attention to the intern. Analyst, he corrected himself. I keep forgetting that Connolly retired...

"As I'm sure you know by now: we've got more than one dead person here. About a dozen or so, give or take; we're still digging 'em up. And — surprise, surprise — they're all bone and rags. These dead dudes have been here for a while. A few decades at least. I've only dabbled in anthropology, so anything more will likely take me a while. But I can tell you that so far we've got at least three dudes and five dudettes for sure. The rest I'm still figuring out. Gonna have to do a lot of reading for this one."

Klocke gave Nolf an inquisitive look. Why not call in an actual anthropologist? It couldn't be that expensive... Right?

Nolf wrinkled his nose. "We're not gonna have to call in the FBI, are we?"

Klocke let out a small huff of laughter, smiling slightly. "Who knows?" He said dryly. "How fast do you read?"

Nolf sighed. "Not fast enough. Fuck you."

{ { o } }

There were eleven bodies total. And they'd all been there for about the same amount of time. No clues on the identities, though with the way they were buried, and where they were buried, it was very likely that they'd been murdered.

Thus the reason Klocke found himself down in records, sorting through thirty-plus-year-old files on missing persons. Mostly the ones about people that had never been found.

"What exactly are we supposed to look for down here? A lot of people went missing between 1959 and 1970. Are we just supposed to bring up every file of every person who was never found? Fucking Golf, can't even call in a damned bone geek to get the job done faster cuz his fucking ego's too damn motherfucking sensitive..."

Klocke ignored all this. Norgaard often liked to rant when he was irritated, it was a good stress reliever for him. The things he said could often be misconstrued, but he never meant anything by any of it. And Norgaard at least worked faster when he complained. Klocke didn't know why. It was just one of those unexplained things.

He set aside the files he'd pulled from the 1962 box and moved on to 1963. And that's when he found something odd.

"Norgaard," he called, interrupting his partner's tirade of irritated mutterings.

Norgaard set aside his 1966 box and shuffled through the dust towards Klocke. "Find something interesting, kid?"

"Maybe. Look."

Norgaard looked over his shoulder at the files in his hands. His thick grey brows rose. "Well, well... Now that is interesting."