The end of the school day was always bittersweet for Principal Edward Carter. In one sense it came as a tremendous relief that the day was done. The end of the day also meant that he would now reckon with the day's events and decide how to proceed. He was not looking forward to reviewing today's events.

Ed stretched as he walked the halls in silence. Rolling his neck and rotating his shoulders, he felt the stress of the day begin to fade. His upper body still held some of the muscle he'd built during his athletic younger days, but years of office work had softened him.

He put his left hand on a wall and stretched his legs, alternating between left and right, breathing deeply as he did so. His legs, at one time tight with muscles, were now perpetually sore. A dull ache had begun to creep into his lower back on a daily basis.

His six foot two frame was still tall enough to keep him a full head over most of his teachers and the students at school. His big hands meant trouble typing on tiny laptops, a constant frustration. Sometimes he felt just plain too big for this job. But a certain amount of intimidation was useful in his job.

These days though, it seemed his size was absolutely nothing in the face of the violence that had been slowly taking over the school.

With the hallways empty his shoes made an echo each time his heel met the floor. A set of windows behind him made his shadow stretch out down the hallway. The final bell had rung two hours ago and, as was his custom, he did a lap around the school and all of it's hallways. The meetings were done and even the most industrious of his teachers had left for the day.

He soaked up the quiet. He closed his eyes as he walked the hall and breathed in a few deep breaths. Lockers lined the hallway to his left and right. Blue, yellow, and white squares of linoleum made a checkered pattern on the floor. He smelled the cleaning spray that the custodians used. As he passed a boys' bathroom he heard the low rumble of the plumbing equipment they used to fix the daily clogged toilets.

Some of the students had started to jam entire rolls of toilet paper into the toilets and jammed them full, creating a clogged toilet and hours of work for his team. The students preferred sticking their arms into toilet and clogging them to being in class, apparently. He shook his head as he walked past, grateful that the toilets were not his immediate job responsibility.

To his left something caught his eye. It was a large black graffiti tag on one of the lockers. A few indecipherable loops and straight dashes were scrawled under the numbers of locker 2158. The black marker was thick and permanent on top of the blue locker with scratches and rust. He shook his head knowingly. His trained eyes could decipher the tag of the Franklin East Crew easily now. He'd started to see them more and more over the past few weeks.

He dragged his thumb across it in some hope that he could wipe it clean, but the black tag was thick and resistant under his touch. He'd need to call this one in. It was definitely a gang tag. It could be seen as a threat. Staff and the Dean would need to be told. He'd need to find out who this locker belonged to. Call them in also.

"Do they know the amount of work I have to do now?" he wondered to himself. "Five seconds of scribbling on a wall means five hours of extra calls and meetings." He took his phone from his pocket and snapped a picture, sighed, and walked on.

Back in his office he packed up to head home. His office was his second home. Extra shirts, jackets and ties hung from the coat rack beside the door. Papers were strewn across his desk and he had to scatter them away to get at the laptop hidden underneath. He stuffed it into his backpack and reached for his phone. He unlocked it and took one last look at the locker that had been defaced with a the gang's graffiti symbols. His eye noticed something odd at the bottom near the floor.

He used his fingers to zoom in on the phone's picture. A bit of white material was jammed in the locker door's bottom, and it was red with what could have been blood. "What the...?" Carter whispered to himself. He sprinted out of his office and through the halls, the slam of his shoes echoing like gunshots through the empty halls.

"Barry!" He was out of breath. "Barry, do you copy?" He spoke urgently into his walkie-talkie.

"Barry! Do you copy!" The walkie only crackled with static in response.

"Where in hell is that..." He turned a corner and stumbled to a sudden stop. He looked up to see a bear of a man in blue coveralls.

Barry smiled. "Where is that..what? Didn't mean to interrupt you there. Please continue on." He placed his hands on his hips defiantly.

"Ah. Yeah. There you are. I was going to say..where is that..uh," he bent over with his hands on his knees. "Whoo dang I am out of shape." He held his finger up to say he needed a minute.

Barry chuckled. "Not so young and fast as you once was, huh? Why I remember watching you run circles around everybody back in your day. Can't quite-"

"Ok now's not the time my man," Carter interrupted. "We need to open up locker 2158 right away. Something's up."

Barry's keys jangled on his hip as they approached the locker. They stopped in front and Carter pointed down to the stained red cloth squeezing out of the bottom.

He sighed. "That...does not..look good." He wiped some sweat from his forehead from his run through the halls.

Barry sorted through his keys. "No sir. Not good at all. Let's hope it's not what we think it is."

He opened the locker slowly and as he did the remains of a once white short spilled out onto the floor. It was soaked in red. Behind the shirt, on the bottom of the locker, lay a shiny silver pistol. Not a little pea shooter either. Carter was no cop but guessed it was probably a .45. A piece that was built to kill.

"That an eagle?" Barry was bent down, squinting at the gun. He took a flashlight from his pocket. In the light they saw an eagle with outspread wings engraved along the barrel of the gun.

Barry stood up and looked Carter in the eyes. "Does this mean what I think it means?"

Carter stepped back into the empty hallway. "I don't believe this. I thought he was in prison! How can Carlos be back?"

After helping Barry clean up and taking the appropriate photos, Carter called the police.

His friend Tania picked up on the other end. "Sergeant McCoy speaking," She said in an annoyed and tired voice.

"Hi Tania. Ed Carter from South Branch High School here. I..I think we have a problem here."

* * *

It was dark and cold when Ed finally left school that day. The streetlights were on and the school parking lot was empty except for his own lonely truck. The light blue 1984 Chevrolet was still in great condition. His prized possession gleamed under the tall lights in the parking lot.

He approached from the front and ran his hand along the big heavy hood. He tossed his bag into the back and it landed with a thud. He winced, remembering his laptop was still inside. "Hopefully it's broken," he thought to himself with a smile.

He relished the sound and feel of closing the driver's side door of his truck. It swung with a heaviness he loved, and the connection made a solid divide between him and the world. Being inside his truck meant he was done with work, and he needed that separation. 20 years of teaching and administration had taught him to relish the time apart.

The truck rumbled to life with a satisfying growl. As he drove home he kept trying to shake the image of the bloody shirt and gun form his mind. Tania McCoy had responded quickly as usual, bringing the full power of her position with her. They treated the locker as a crime scene, and completed all the necessary workups. Her team took fingerprints and photos and put all the locker's items in bags for evidence.

The locker belonged to Carson Ridgewell, a tiny 9th grader that, in Ed's mind, looked about twelve years old. He couldn't remember him exactly, but he had always tried his best to at least make a name - face connection with all of his students. Calls were made to his parents but there was no answer. McCoy sent a team to the boy's apartment, but they came up empty. No answer at the door or on the phone.

Ed pulled into his driveway and the gravel crunched under the big truck's tires. He sighed and pulled his keys out of his pocket. He stood in front of his door and took a breath. He turned the knob and pushed open the door. It gave a slight squeak (he had to get the fixed). He was met by darkness and the faint smell of garbage.

Since his wife Carmen passed away from brain cancer last year, he had been unable to get a comfortable home set up. He had sold their home after her death; it was unbearable to be there without her.

This condo was smaller and a better fit for a single older guy, but he still had not done any decorating or setting up anything beyond a small square kitchen table. A worn-out recliner sat alone in the living room. It was placed in front of a 32-inch TV with rabbit ear antennas attached to it with strips of masking tape.

He set his bag down and walked to the kitchen counter. The only thing on it was a green bottle of Glenfiddich 12 year Scotch and a short tumbler glass. The bottle was almost empty, but another was within reach back against the wall. The glass was clear and had a bright red pheasant mid-flight on the side.

Ed reached for the bottle and glass. "Hello beautiful," he said. "How was your day?"

He opened his refrigerator and the bare kitchen was bathed in light. Cans of Miller Light beer and a few half-full takeout containers lined the shelves. He reached down to a clear plastic container that held a rotisserie chicken. The fat was a cold gel along the edges and some of the bones were still attached.

He poured himself three fingers of the amber liquid into the glass, picked up the plastic container with cold chicken, and walked into the living room. He had no other options but the old recliner. He sat down with a thud and the cushions welcomed the familiar form.

Four Scotches later, Ed could barely keep his eyes open. The TV was on local news. The anchor was talking about an uptick in gang violence in areas around the city.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Ed mumbled. "Tell us something we don't know."

He stumbled up the steps and into the loft that served as his bedroom. A drunken sleep overtook him.

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