Guy Langman, Crime Scene Procrastinator

PROLOGUE

It’s no coincidence that I got interested in forensics right around the time they put my dad in the ground. It was a beautiful day. Say what you will about the Jerz, but sometimes New Jersey can be absolute perfection. Mid-May, near the end of sophomore year. The birds were chirping a melodic song and the breeze was tiptoeing through the air—just enough force to kiss your face but far too polite to disrupt even a single hair on your head. According to the sign outside the First Bank of Berry Ridge on the way to the cemetery, the temperature was a lucky seventy-seven degrees. Those two lucky sevens stood crookedly, shining on in perfect symmetry. Seventy-seven degrees is perfection. The deep blue of the sky was perfect, and the wispy clouds looked like they sprang from a painter’s brush. Everything was perfect. Yes, it would have been an absolutely ideal New Jersey spring day. If I hadn’t been spending it at my father’s funeral.

I had a bunch of tissues. Before we left the house, I jammed my suit pockets with them until my pockets were bulging cartoonishly, like I was a shoplifter swiping throw pillows. The last time I bought a suit was for my bar mitzvah, so it hardly fit. I looked ridiculous. I knew that. I had two whole boxes of tissues in there. I feared I’d need them all. I was wrong. I needed more. They only lasted a few minutes. All the tissues were sopping wet almost immediately, reduced to pointless mush. I ended up catching my tears in my hands like a child collecting raindrops. Then I let them spill onto the grass. I knew there would be more. And more. And more.

It was my first funeral, but I knew what to expect. Somehow you just know. There were speeches that didn’t mean much of anything. Pointless words of condolence. There was potato salad. Someone brought soup. There was that meaningless but gentle lie that he’s in a better place now. It’s obviously stupid, because if it were true, if we went somewhere fantastic after we died, we would all try to hurry up and end our lives. But we do just the opposite. We fight like hell to stay alive. Dad fought. Tough old bastard. He lived longer than anyone thought he would. I plan to do the same. I had fun for a brief moment at that funeral, imagining myself and my friends as old men. What might we become? I pictured the foliage of my curly black hair gone, reduced to a gray ring like a line of shrubs around a suburban yard. I pictured Anoop walking with an old-man cane, wearing a toupee. I smiled. For just a second.

The service was distinctly nonreligious. The reading (which I gave, in a shaking voice) was not from any holy text, but from Walt Whitman, Dad’s favorite:

What do you think has become of the young and old men?

And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere;

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death;

And if ever there was, it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,

And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

Side note: Does replacing an e with an apostrophe automatically make something sound more poetic? I lunch’d on school burritos; I fart’d for days. Yup, sure is poetry … And sorry about that aside. Dr. Waters says I use humor as a way to hide my feelings. And since I don’t have a psychology degree from Slippery Rock University, maybe we have to conclude that she is correct. Side note to the side note: Graduates of Slippery Rock University do not particularly enjoy it when you point at the diploma on their office wall and say, That’s not a real college, is it? It totally is a real college.

The funeral went just like you’d imagine. There was the crawl of funeral-flag-bearing cars, winding like ants through the streets of Berry Ridge, NJ, to Dad’s final resting place. I expected family to show up and I expected his old business partners to show up. I expected that his old shipmates would show up. I expected that, thanks to his long and colorful life, it would be a large and strange crowd. I expected that there would be some people I had never met.

But I didn’t expect quite so many strangers. I thought a son would know most of the people at his father’s funeral. I knew very few. Many I’d never seen before in my life. Like one guy—a tall, stooped stranger with a pale face and a dark blue flower in his black suit pocket. He looked like a number seven, bent severely at the waist like he was looking for something on the ground.

"Who is that?" I asked my mom through the tears. We were outside now. The weather was lovely, people kept saying. Lovely. But outside was the worst part of the whole thing. The burial. My arms ached from carrying the casket. Pallbearer duties are normal for a son, I suppose, but you shouldn’t have to do them in high school. I never thought I’d have to do them at all. Denial, I guess. Refusal to think about the future. Another way of hiding my feelings. Up yours, Dr. Waters.

The grass of the cemetery was the brightest green you’ve ever seen. It made me think of Whitman. The smallest sprout shows there is really no death. Death really is good for life.

I have no idea who half these people are, Mom said. I was going to ask you if you knew that fella. She pointed to another elder statesman. A guy who had to be Dad’s age—something like seventy, anyway—with shocking white eyebrows. He raised them in our direction, that friendly funeral salute—lips pursed, head down, eyes solemn. Eyebrows. I expected Mr. Eyebrows to come over and talk to us, but he did not.

And who is that? I asked. This guy was younger—maybe Mom’s age. I have a young mom. I’m the guy whose friends all like to tease him about how hot his mom is. Nice. But this guy wasn’t good-looking. He was actually just weird-looking. He almost looked like he was in disguise. Maybe some people always look like they’re in disguise. Maybe that’s a good way to live. He had dark glasses and a magnificently bushy brown beard. He didn’t even look at us, and he certainly didn’t come say hello. He was anything but friendly. Mom returned the favor.

Others did come say hello, of course. Aunts and cousins, neighbors and friends. Anoop, my best friend from school, was there, as were his parents. Mr. and Mrs. Chattopadhyay greeted Mom and me in that same sad way. Mr. Chattopadhyay’s toupee was hilariously crooked, but no one said anything. Mom smiled a cheerless smile under her large dark hat. Her eyes were filling with tears again, so she extracted large-framed sunglasses from her purse and put them on. Like a body being lowered into the earth, her grief became hidden. Forever.

CHAPTER ONE

January. Eight Months Later.

Forensics Squad, Day One

Welcome to Forensics Squad! The handwriting on the board is so chipper that it makes me snort. Who is that happy about forensics? Mr. Zant, apparently.

It is 2:45, fifteen minutes after the last bell. School is over, but Mr. Z’s classroom is packed to the gills. That’s a joke. Get it? Because Mr. Z’s favorite subject is marine biology? But wait, I didn’t already explain that, so there’s no way you could have gotten the joke. Even then, it is quite possibly not funny. Never mind.

Wow, Mr. Zant is saying, circling the room, handing out a form we all sign but don’t read. He’s very young, and he almost looks like a kid. It is really cool to see so many of you, he says.

He has to mean that it’s really cool to see so many good-looking girls show up for his club meeting. The hot girls are the main reason I joined up. Okay, I like the forensics shows on TV. And yeah, maybe I have sort of been one of those death-obsessed teenagers you hear about sometimes. Wearing a turtleneck, hanging out in cafés, reading books by Camus, stuff like that. (Not really. I hate turtlenecks.) But really, since Dad died last spring, I guess the idea of learning about how people die appeals to me. The difference between breathing and not breathing seems so thin …

Normally I don’t love extracurricular anythings, and I didn’t really want to join this club. But then Anoop told me that Mr. Z was hosting a weekly club starting after winter break that includes Laura Shaw, Aiden Altieri, Scarlett Reese, and Raquel Flores, and somehow I found myself penciling in my name on the Forensics Squad sign-up sheet. The last lass mentioned, the lovely Raquel, is of particular interest to me …

What can I say about Raquel Flores? Eyes like an angel, heart like an angel, and legs like an angel … Wait, do angels have nice legs? Do angels even have legs? I know they have wings, so they probably don’t need legs. Forget it. I don’t think Jews believe in angels, anyway. Just know this: There might be other girls who are a bit more popular, but there are none more beautiful or more mysterious than Raquel Flores. If she’s not the sole reason I’m a member of Forensics Squad, her name on that list is certainly the factor that put me over the top. I’m crushing on her hard. I was interested in the topic, yeah, but still, it takes a lot to get me to sign up for anything. I’m not normally exactly what you’d call a joiner.

Mr. Z continues. It’s just awesome that you are all into forensics. I should warn you, though, he says. It’s not at all like you see on TV. It’s actually a lot of hard work, nitty-gritty science. We are going to learn the basics of crime scene investigation through a combination of lecture and lab, ending the semester with a simulated scene in the field. I will plant the evidence. You will solve the crime.

Dude, I whisper to Anoop. "There are four ensics? What’s an ensic, anyway? It sounds like something from health class."

You’re thinking of ‘cervix,’  Anoop says, tapping his temple. And there is but the glorious one.

Your mother has four ensics, I say.

Shut up your face about my mother, he hisses. Or I’ll kill you. He says kill like keel and motions with his finger like he’s slitting a throat.

And then I can figure out exactly how you did it! I yell. When I think I’m funny, I have a problem with volume control. I slap the table. Because I know all four ensics!

The adorable Raquel Flores turns her head in my direction and narrows her dark eyes into a nasty squint. The look on her face lets me know that she is less amused and more confused. Story of my life. My mind goes to a piece of advice my dad gave me once. Go where the pretty is, he always said. Worked for him. I’ve seen the pictures. He had some amazingly hot girlfriends before Mom. I cherish all of his advice. Live my life by it.

What’s all the commotion back there, Guy? Mr. Zant says. Huh. I haven’t been in any of his classes. We didn’t take roll or anything. How does he know my name?

I wrinkle up my eyebrows and turn my head at a highly confused angle.

What? I say. You must be some sort of genius detective. Smooth.

Tell me your name, Guy, he repeats. Mr. Zant is one of those teachers who always try to be cool and hip and think of themselves as more of a friend than an enforcer, but I can tell he’s getting sort of pissed at me.

But you already know, I say.

Dude, Anoop says to me in a low voice. I don’t think he really guessed your name. Anoop is good at figuring out social situations, unlike me. Zant is probably one of those dudes who just call everybody ‘guy.’ He doesn’t realize that your name is actually ‘Guy.’ 

What are you whispering about, you guys? Mr. Zant says, this time to Anoop.

No, Anoop says, pointing both thumbs at himself. Just one Guy. I’m Anoop Chattopadhyay. But you can call me the Bengal Tiger. Everybody does. Then he points to me with a double handgun gesture. This goofy-looking Jew is Guy Langman.

Thanks, Anoop. He could have described me a million different ways. Noted my lovely curls, my naturally svelte build, my nose-of-much-character, my glowing smile. But no: it’s goofy-looking Jew. Could be worse, I guess. I smile weakly at Raquel.

Mr. Zant scratches his goatee and cocks his head.

I’ve never heard anyone, including Anoop, refer to him as the Bengal Tiger. He’s an Indian guy with hipster glasses and a valiantly-trying-to-be-a-mustache mustache. He dresses like a living Lands’ End catalog. The Bengal Tiger? The whole room has turned tense, silent, and, if I’m not mistaken, a little angry. I stare everyone down and drum a quick rhythm on the table with my fingers.

Don’t get your ensics in a bunch, I say. I’m here all week.

CHAPTER TWO

So, Forensics Squad. Do I go back? First meeting was hardly a success. I should turn and flee, really. My Flores chances, slim as they were, most likely were dashed by that outburst. I try to put it out of my mind. I coast through the week. Math, English, the click of the clock, the hum of school days. One Social Studies class is sort of interesting …

We are watching an educational documentary about a primitive tribe from an island somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. But no, that’s not what is interesting. No one is learning anything here. Almost all the boys in class are just obsessed with snickering over the fact that in the movie, the topless tribeswomen’s boobs are flopping around like pizza dough. The girls in class are all laughing about the strange dong bracelets that the men wear. Everyone laughs together when a shaman comes in to chase away evil spirits by biting everyone on the ass. He literally puts their cheek meat between his incisors and chomps down. Okay, this is interesting. Mostly just shocking. How did Mrs. Lewis think we were going to react? Did she fail to pre-screen this cultural epic? This is more uproarious than the time Mr. Brock kept talking about Honoré de Balzac in Lit class. (We all swore he was saying ornery ball sack, and commenced laughing our asses off.)

But here’s the thing: during the film, I find myself having deep thoughts about Dad. I find myself feeling profoundly jealous of the kids in the movie. The tribe’s leader takes the boys—who are like twelve—and tells them exactly how to turn into men. It is just so awesome. This leader, an extra tall, extra skinny wild man with eyes that move independently of one another, just sits these kids down, lights a pipe, and lays out the facts about what it means to be a man.

Some of it is fairly dubious stuff about how the world was created by a dragon who pooped fire or something, but most of it is a clear set of rules for living. Stuff like how to shoot a pig with a bow and arrow, how to talk to women, how to be a husband, how to deal with disagreements with other men in the tribe. Although shooting a pig with a bow and arrow doesn’t help that much in contemporary New Jersey. You see my point …

Anyway, I think: Why don’t we have anything like this? Why don’t we have a time when we sit down and learn the (narrator’s voice) rules for living? We have bar mitzvahs, but all we learn there is how to sneak booze from an open bar. That may be some of the wisdom needed to be a man, now that I think of it, but still, I want a lot more. My rabbi isn’t going to show us how to gut a pig (treyf), but the Torah portion I read at my bar mitzvah was literally about cattle disease. No doubt this was useful back when the Torah was written, whenever that was, but it doesn’t help me that much today. We need new rules, new traditions, new procedure manuals for life.

This is what I am thinking, scribbling in my notebook, sitting there in Social Studies, lost amid the thoughts of Dad, dong bracelets, pizza-dough boobs, and Raquel Flores’s short skirt.

You look like you’re trying to solve the mysteries of life, Anoop whispers, in reference to the serious look I must have adopted while deep in thought. Or maybe holding back a dump. Either way, let me know how it comes out.

I chuckle. And then I realize: My own dad, through all his little comments, all his quips, all his asides, had left me a kind of procedures manual. He had an amazing life—he was an inventor, a world traveler, a scuba diver who literally discovered sunken treasure. A mensch. He was always spouting gems. Pieced together in the right way, these gems might provide a road map through life’s confusing wilderness. Now that he’s dead, I can’t get anything new from him, but maybe I can still get something … crucial. This thought hits me like a life preserver thrown to a drowning man, a floating inner tube in the raging