Raleigh's Prep

Pound of Flesh

The dead body sat in the middle of the playing field, looking like a pile of rags melting into the ground. Zorn saw it and stopped jogging, thinking it might be a drunk student passed out after a night’s partying. Why hadn’t his friends dragged him back to campus?
“Topher, look,” he said.
Topher stopped a few feet away, jogging in place.
“Quit making excuses and run, you slug. You’ll never survive this place in your condition.”
“No, really.”
Topher rolled his eyes and looked, squinting against the sun rising over the campus.
“I’ll be damned.”
The smell hit them at the thirty-yard line. It reminded Zorn of the time the meat freezer in his parents’ basement died. He and Topher pulled their shirts up over their noses and came to a stop on either side of the pile. There were scraps of clothes and shards of bone and red stuff all mixed together like a salad, and it was big and wet and sticky looking. Flies had begun to gather.
“Phew,” Zorn said. “I am ripe.”
“Not as ripe as that.”
Gertrude (whose real name was Kenneth) finally caught up to them, winded and confused.
“What are you doing?” Then, seeing the bloody mound, “what’s that?”
Topher crossed his arms. “Well,” he said, squatting down to get a better view. “That’s a finger.”
“Where?”
“Right there, next to the spleen.”
Gertrude put his hands on his knees.
“How do you know that’s a spleen?”
“It’s either a spleen or a bladder.”
A buzzard swooped down and landed on the mound, which shifted. Something plopped on the grass. Gertrude turned green. The stench, the offal, the machine-like buzzing of the flies, it was all too much. The bird plucked something out of the mess, something long and stringy, and he trotted off to the edge of the track and threw up. At the same time, a pickup truck, primer gray with calico patches of rust, came bounding over the maintenance road, engine revving.
“Oh no,” Zorn whispered. “Mr. Floyd.”
Mr. Floyd was the groundskeeper. Though the boys had only been at Raleigh’s for a few weeks, they’d heard rumors about his meanness, and his drunkenness, and his mean drunkenness, and now they were about to experience all of it first hand, beginning with being bounced along in the payload of his truck, plastic zip ties binding their hands. Gertrude looked miserably out at the passing fields. He had been hit hardest by the whole ordeal: the accident, the fire, the trial and incarceration. His family was tightly knit and, unlike his friends’, still alive. He had promised his mother there would be no more of the shenanigans that landed him there in the first place, and now he was already tangled up in the death of another student. There were no second chances at Raleigh’s Prep: any student caught breaking any rule was subject to the sternest possible punishment. In some very few cases that meant some kind of beating or flogging in the courtyard, but for most it meant one thing and one thing only. Expulsion. And expulsion meant prison.
Real prison.
With prison cells and prison food and prison rape.
Not that there weren’t rapists at Raleigh’s, but at least they were wealthy rapists.
Topher watched him for a while, looking for signs of weakness or instability. Would he cry? Was he angry? The latter was more his worry than the former. Gertrude was easily a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier, even without the furs and beard. He’d once seen him lift an entire keg over his head in a drunken rage and throw it through a sliding glass door.
“Are you all right, Gertrude?” he cried over the wind. Gertrude continued to stare at the passing fields. “Gertrude! Are you all right?”
Gertrude said nothing. Topher kicked him. Gertrude still didn’t respond. Zorn put a hand on Topher’s foot.
“Leave him alone. I’ll talk to him later.”
The payload hit a bump, sending them all a few inches into the air with startled cries. Zorn ended up on the truck bed.
Topher beat on the window with his fists.
“Damn your hide, Mr. Floyd!”
Mr. Floyd shot them a glance, then whipped the window back.
“You mind yourself there, boy. You three in a heap of trouble already.”
Then he slammed it back and locked it into place.
“The man is a moron,” Topher cried to the wind.
Gertrude nudged him with his foot.
“Here comes the campus.”
Topher craned his neck to see how fast they would get there. Who would be awake in the courtyard at this hour to witness their arrest? What a wonderful rumor that would create. Whispers in The Grotto: The new kids were caught eating a dead student! His standing with the older boys would skyrocket. Especially if they were all flogged or beaten.
“Do you think that ass, Brimstone, will be awake at this hour?”
Zorn stretched his legs, resting his feet on the tailgate.
“Why do you ask?”
“He wants somebody to see us,” Gertrude said. “He wants to be associated with the murder.”
Topher was offended.
“I do not want just anybody to see us. I want that ass Brimstone to see us. How do you know it was a murder?”
Gertrude shot him an incredulous look.
“You saw the body. How could that not be a murder?”
“Perhaps he had a virus. Maybe he died of natural causes and then was eaten by wild dogs. Did I not tell you of the bloodcurdling howl I heard this morning?”
The pickup emerged from the path and stopped parallel to the forest.
“It doesn’t matter,” Gertrude said. “We’ll be expelled before breakfast.”
“Oh don’t be such a baby.”
Mr. Floyd cut the engine, which knocked and pinged before finally coming to rest. The door opened with a crack and a whine and he jolted out, his boots crunching on the gravel as he stalked around to the tailgate. He surveyed the grounds, but other than a few voices floating out of the dorm windows, the coast was clear. Satisfied, he turned on them and snarled, “Get out! Get!”
Topher stared back like a dumb beast. Gertrude merely glanced at him. When it was clear they weren’t going to move, Mr. Floyd leaned in, yanked Zorn out by his wrists, then Topher, then Gertrude.
“Line up against the truck.”
They did as they were told, shooting each other wary glances.
“Aren’t you going to bring us to the headmaster?” Topher squeaked.
“Shut up,” Mr. Floyd growled. “Now listen. I’m gonna ignore the fact that you boys was out of your rooms before morning roll. I’m gonna ignore the fact that you been sass-talking me all morning. Now one of y'all tell me what you seen out there on the field.”
“A bloody cor—” Zorn began, but Mr. Floyd backhanded him across the face before he could finish. The crack echoed in the morning. Crows in the nearby trees cawed in complaint and flapped away into the distance. A red welt swelled on Zorn’s cheek.
“Now listen to me very closely,” Mr. Floyd repeated, breathing hard. His breath smelled sharp, like rotten apples. “Tell me. What you boys seen. Out there. On the field.”
“Well,” Topher said. “I believe Zorn was trying to tell you that we saw a dead body befo—”
Mr. Floyd backhanded him, too. He fixed his eyes upon Gertrude, who shrank back a little
“You. Tell me what you seen out there on the field.”
“Certainly not a dead body.”
Gertrude shut his eyes tight, waiting for the blow. The birds in the trees awoke and sang, and a strong breeze whooshed through the leaves. He opened one eye. Mr. Floyd was smiling at him, which was a terrible thing. He raised his chin at Gertrude.
“This one here’s the smartest one of all y'all. Now listen, I’m gonna tell you boys what you seen out there.” He pulled a hunting knife out of a sheath on his belt and waggled it menacingly. “You ain’t seen nothing, got it?” Gertrude nodded furiously. “Now, if you go around spreading any rumors—” He shoved the knife between the boy’s wrists and began to saw back and forth.
“No!” Gertrude cried, but then the zip ties were cut and he was free. Zorn was next, then Topher, and then all three were standing there, free, frowning in their confusion.
“Get outta here,” Mr. Floyd spat.
They didn’t move.
“I said GET!”
They took a few cautious steps away from the truck, waiting for some kind of trick. Mr. Floyd twirled the knife in his hand, then Zorn reached over and grabbed Topher by the sleeve and pulled him away, and all three sprinted off.
The groundskeeper watched them cut across the grass and head up the brick path that led to the courtyard. When he was sure that they weren’t coming back, he limped to the driver’s side door and eased himself inside. The pickup started with a throaty roar. He put it in gear and spun the wheel around, heading back the way he had just come, back to the field.

When he was sure they were out of earshot, Topher said, “A near miss. We’ll have to be more careful.”
Zorn patted his belly.
“I’m hungry.”
“Today’s sausage day at The Grotto. I love sausage day.”
The thought of sausage links reminded Gertrude of the corpse on the field, particularly its—
“Perhaps I’ll just have a fruit cup.”
Topher fell silent, which unsettled his roommates. When Topher fell silent it meant one of three things:
1. that he was plotting to vomit.
2. that he was plotting some kind of tomfoolery.
3. that he was plotting to vomit as a measure of tomfoolery.
It was just such the combination that landed them in Raleigh’s in the first place, only in that case it wasn’t “vomit” and “tomfoolery,” but “arson” and “premeditated murder”.
Fortunately, all he did was remain silent and continue to walk, and Gertrude, feeling better now that they hadn’t gotten into trouble, began to think about his family.
“I wonder if my parents have built the new house yet.”
“Hardly,” Zorn replied. “They’ll have to wait for the check from the insurance company.”
“At least that’ll allow father’s wounds to heal. How long does it take skin to grow back?”
“It would make an excellent research project. I once burned my calf on the tailpipe of a moped. My doctor prescribed this greasy salve. I was supposed to rub it on the burn for two weeks, and so I did, but all it did was make the skin melt. I got a violent infection, and my leg nearly fell off. It took a full two months to recover.”
“Father’s in an oxygen tent. He’s fed intravenously.”
Brown-shirted boys burst out of dormitory’s side doors, screaming like drill sergeants. Assistants. The worst of the worst, chosen specifically for their lack of empathy and daddy issues, sycophantic psychopaths assigned by administration to boss the other boys around, bully them, snoop through their belongings, and report any and all non-conformists, weirdos, oddballs, introverts, rebels, radicals, mopers, and ononists to Headmaster Stoneman .
“Get to breakfast!” they cried.
Topher despised them. He despised their short clipped hair and their crisp, button-up shirts. He despised their shiny black shoes, their pressed and pleated khakis. But most of all he despised their whistles, which they blew incessantly, red-faced and angry, directly into the face of any peon who dared not immediately react to an order. Fortunately, they were unarmed. Stoneman was severe, but he wasn’t an idiot. Still, he ignored the little homemade blackjacks some of them carried, unless they were crazy enough to use them in the open, or if one were used in the commission of the death of another student, in which case his preferred method of punishment was more biblical than progressive.
“Beat the cur with his own tail and it will never disobey again,” he often said.
The door to Burleigh’s flew open, and Topher saw the Assistants that were assigned to their floor, Brimstone and Burr, stomp out onto the cobblestones, carrying on in their usual fashion, screaming at everybody to exit the dorm immediately, maggots, and get to chow.
“Just fall in with the crowd,” Topher muttered, and they did exactly that, wending their way into the mass of adolescents nearly trampling each other to get to breakfast and away from the brown-shirted menace.
When he was sure they’d escaped detection, Topher said, “I think he knows who we are.”
“Gertrude’s father?” Zorn said. “He knows exactly who we are. He’s the reason we were sent to this place. Weren’t you at the trial? It was quite dramatic.”
“I’m aware of Mr. Hughes’s roll in our internment. I was referring to Mr. Floyd.”
“But we’ve only been here less than a month,” Gertrude said.
“Yes, but Mr. Floyd is everywhere. He could probably tell us the time and date of your last bowel movement.”
“What?”
“Didn’t I tell you he approached me the third day after our arrival? ‘Six-thirty in the evening,’ he growled. ‘Tuesday.’ It took a while before I understood exactly what he was talking about, but when I did I shuddered for nearly an hour straight.”
“Then he knows exactly who we are. Among other things.”
Topher waved the comment aside. “The question I propose is this: Why did he let us go?”
“Maybe he didn’t see the corpse?”
“How could he not see it?” Zorn said. “It was right there in front of him, despite Topher’s, er, best efforts to draw away his attention.”
“I don’t know what happened. My buttocks usually have a mesmerizing effect upon people, particularly adults.”
“Perhaps, then, he didn’t understand that the corpse was a corpse?” Gertrude offered. “I mean, I know it was obvious to us, but he didn’t really get a good look at it like we did.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Gertrude. What else could he think it was?”
“From that distance? Maybe a pile of rotted squirrels? Odious little vermin, them. I was once attacked by squirrels when I was three-years-old. Nearly bit off my thumb. See the scar?”
He presented his thumb to them for inspection.
Zorn peered at the tiny white line just below the nail.
“I thought that was a badger?”
“I was also attacked by a badger, but not until I was six. An altogether different story. It was mostly to blame.”
“You told me you swatted it with a walking stick.”
“I did, and when it attacked, I compared it to several unfavorable things. I believe the beauty of the metaphor was lost in the violence of the moment. I was forced to run for my life.”
Topher began to get heated.
“The corpse was neither a pile of deceased squirrels nor was it a pile of deceased badgers.”
“Then there was the time that baboon bit me on the arm at the zoo,” Gertrude continued. “It would seem as though I’m not held in high regard by mammals at all.”
“Shut up! What we found was obviously the body of a dead student. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t there something about not murdering one’s classmates in the Student Code of Conduct?”
“If there isn’t, there should be,” Zorn said.
The gold dome of The Grotto loomed ahead atop a short incline, growing larger and more mythical as they approached. Pillars framed the wide wooden doors, and marble benches were bolted into the concrete next to them. Zorn’s belly growled at the thought of the impending feast.
“Wait, are rodents mammals?” Gertrude finally asked.

If the exterior of The Grotto was a romantic approximation of a gothic cathedral, the interior resembled more of a late nineteenth-century booby hatch. Beige tiles covered the floor, and the walls (also beige) weren’t made out of brick, or wood beams, or anything else stylish, but sheetrock. Even the lime-streaked windows were square. Rusty iron bars were bolted into the frames, and the glass panes were warped and bubbled.
“Look,” Zorn said as they joined the queue. “It’s I, Dennis. Hello, I, Dennis!”
He waved at a tall, skinny boy in the middle of the line. He was wearing black celluloid pants that crinkled when he walked, a matching black shirt, and a black plastic helmet, all of which shined dully in the buzzing overhead lights. His nose was angular and prominent, his cheeks sallow and sunken, and his Adam’s apple protruded like a painful tumor. Topher had never been very impressed by the helmet, though everyone else seemed to think it was magnificent. That knot in his throat, however, was unnerving, bobbing like it did whenever he spoke, or breathed, or did nothing. It was like it had a mind of its own.
He didn’t say anything, but he did let them cut in line behind him.
Gertrude eyed the camera mounted on the back of the helmet.
“So, are you still, er, still modifying your body?”
The camera jerked in symmetrical polygons, making little mechanical sounds as it scanned Gertrude’s every movement. I, Dennis turned around, blessing them with his white, scar-puckered countenance.
“Hello, Zorn. Hello, Kenneth.” He nodded at Topher and his Adam’s apple bobbed and Topher jerked his eyes toward the ceiling.
Gertrude beamed. It was rare that anyone referred to him by his given name. Zorn pointed at some wires sticking out his neck.
“What are those for?”
“Performance enhancers. The kids at my old school used to tease me. They don’t anymore.”
“The wires stopped them?”
“No, I did.”
He let that hover in the air.
“I did these before I came here. The kids at my old school liked to throw soggy bread rolls at me. If someone here throws a soggy bread roll at me, my camera will identify it as a hostile object and send electrical impulses to my various muscles. Then I’d burn it to bits with my eyeball lasers.”
A soggy bread roll sailed through the air and hit him right in the back of the head. It splattered, thick and wet, the sodden dough squirting into the helmet, which sparked and fizzled.
“Duck, Jean-Claude!” someone yelled.
“Why do they call me that?”
He took the helmet off with a twist and a click, revealing his puckered skull. Irregular strands of greasy gray hair sprouted like witch-weed, and where there wasn’t hair, the skin was corpse-white, and where the skin wasn’t corpse-white, it was scarred and bruised, and where it wasn’t scarred and bruised, it was wrinkled like the neck of a bulldog. Topher found another spot on the ceiling to stare at.
“It’s an allusion, I think,” Gertrude said.
“An allusion?” I, Dennis scraped bread off the components and out of the cracks in the plastic. “To what?”
“A movie. A late-eighties, science fiction flick called Cyborg, to be specific. It starred Jean-Claude Van Damme. He’s a Belgian karate expert.”
I, Dennis flicked the last few specks bread from his helmet and twisted it back on his head. It clicked and whirred, buzzed and droned, and dinged three times.
“I don’t watch Japanese films.”
“How did you get your hands on all of this?” Zorn asked. “Isn’t that considered contraband?”
“I told you. Most of my upgrades were completed before I was sent here. I’d have Internet service if we weren’t so far out of range.”
Topher continued to stare at the ceiling.
“You’re lying. Who’s your contact? Can you get me some candy bars and a revolver?”
Someone grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around and he came face to face with a muscular Assistant. Phyro Brimstone, his nemesis. He was a little taller than Topher, and he kept his head shaved. The shiny slug of a scar crossed his left cheek. His partner, Burr, stood behind him like a dog, his hands clasped behind his back, fawning and obsequious and ridiculously intense.
“Did I just hear you threaten to shoot somebody?” Brimstone asked.
“My goodness, Phyro,” Topher said. “Your uniform is spotless. Did your boyfriend wash it for you?”
Brimstone sneered.
“Didn’t see you in the hallway this morning, Bill.”
“Oh?”
“You weren’t sneaking out, were you?”
“Of course not. That would be against school rules.”
Brimstone took a step closer so that his nose almost grazed Topher’s.
“If I find out you’ve been sneaking out before wake-up call, you know what that means, right?”
“That I’ve been banging your mother without you?”
The satisfied smile on Brimstone’s face turned into a snarl. He clenched his fists. Topher bounced on his toes, trying to seem taller. Then a voice, cool and collected, said, “Is there a problem, boys?”
Brimstone whipped around, ready to pummel whoever said it, but then panic swept over his face.
There, standing in the entry, was the new Headmaster, Mr. Stoneman. He was very thin, with sunken, snakelike eyes, and a sharp nose and sharp cheeks that emphasized his full lips. His skin was smooth and ruddy, offset by jet-black hair streaked with gray. He wore it long and swept back off his forehead. His suit was also black and expensive, and his shoes were polished within an inch of exploding into flames.
Brimstone’s fists unclenched and he stood at attention. Burr followed suit, the bloodlust in his eyes replaced by terror.
“Mr. Stoneman,” Brimstone said. “How nice to see you, sir.”
“Spare me, Brimstone. I asked you a question.”
“A question, sir?”
“Don’t be an ass, boy. What’s going on here?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all, sir.”
Burr nodded furiously. Stoneman smirked. He hung his head a bit and let the smirk turn into a creepy half-smile.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”
Brimstone blinked and swallowed.
“Yes, sir. This is Topher Bill. Behind him is his roommate, Michael Zorn. And this is Ger . . . Kenneth Hughes.”
“Zorn? That’s an odd name.”
“Yes, sir,” Zorn said. “It’s a family name. My mother’s mother’s maiden name, sir.”
“I see.”
He took them all in, a little half-smile on his face.
“Topher Bill, Michael Zorn, and Kenneth Hughes. I remember you now. I just read your files the other day. Positively murderous.” Gertrude shuddered. “I trust you boys will stay out of trouble while you’re in my care? No more ‘accidental’ fires?” The boys nodded in unison. He held their attention for one last uncomfortable beat. “Very good. Brimstone?”
Brimstone stood even straighter, and Burr tried to mimic him.
“I need you and your little friend to come with me, please.”

Marvin Grimm was almost six foot six and weighed over two hundred pounds. His hunch was legendary. Usually, it was all anybody could see as he waded through the sea of chairs, bobbing on his back like a gull on the waves. His head was huge, too; a stylist’s nightmare, a haberdasher’s wet dream. He scanned the cafeteria for an empty table where he could spread his full bulk, an empty table, preferably, far away from the others, but there wasn’t one. Then he saw his roommate, I, Dennis, and the other new kids whose names he didn’t know yet. They were sitting in the middle of the cafeteria, surrounded by a forest of chair legs and backpacks, but he decided to risk it. He was big and strong, and that’d saved him before, but he’d never been sent away to a place like Raleigh’s where his size and strength didn’t seem to matter. There were kids in there that had done unspeakable things and had no problem telling him about it.
Those unfortunate enough to be in his way were knocked aside or shoved into the tables. When he was forced to stop at some impasse, his hunch was assaulted by a variety of fruit, mostly apples, which ricocheted off like a marble on a trampoline. One shot straight up into the air and hit the ceiling. He grunted a greeting when he reached the table, prompting one of the bearded newcomers below cry out “Marvin Grimm! Nice to see you. Please, have a seat.”
Marvin gently placed his heaping lunch tray on the table and allowed his backpack to slip off his non-hunched shoulder. He placed it carefully on the floor, pulled out a chair, and engulfed it with his buttocks. The chair protested with a creak.
“I forgot your name.”
“I’m Michael. But you can just call me Zorn.”
“Okay. Hi, Zorn.”
Topher, a wicked gleam in his eye, said, “What’s in your backpack, Marvin?”
The table hushed. The contents of Marvin Grimm’s backpack were the subject of wild, and often ludicrous, speculation. Marvin shrugged and shoved a small stack of pancakes into his face. Topher pressed on.
“I like to imagine it is your storage container for hacked up limbs, all wrapped in cheesecloth.”
Marvin shoveled a mound of beans into his face.
“How would you like to find out?”
“Yes, Topher,” Zorn said. “How would you like to find out?”
An apple struck Marvin directly in the forehead and he didn’t bat an eyelash. It fell into his lap, defeated and embarrassed. When he was done with the pancakes, he started in on entire second breakfast that he’d hidden underneath: bacon, eggs, steak. He devoured this in much the same manner he had the pancakes. Another apple sailed by and he swatted it. It exploded.
Zorn caught another apple as it zipped past and took a bite.
“Who’s throwing all of this fruit?”
I, Dennis adjusted his eye plate, studying the images.
“Two boys next to the window in the back.”
“Oh?”
Zorn stood up, the apple in his paw, and scanned the cafeteria for the offenders. He spotted them, two older boys in the corner, ducking and giggling. He threw the apple as hard as he could, hitting one of them in the back of the head and sending him face first into his bowl of oatmeal. There was a brief break in the cafeteria din, and then the room burst into applause and laughter from all directions. The boy stood up, angry and ready to fight, but when he saw who threw it he paused. The boys around him booed and called him names, and he glanced at them, sheepish, before he sat down and wiped the oatmeal off his face with a napkin.
Zorn sat down.
“It seems Mr. Stoneman isn’t the only one who knows about our past.”
“We need to get down to serious business,” Topher said.
Gertrude swallowed.
“Oh, yes. I’ve been meaning to ask you about those weird slapping noises you make in the bathroom.”
“No, not that! We must discuss the heer-haw that we found in the wee-oow.”
“The what?”
“You know.” Topher jerked his head in the direction of the athletic fields. “The thing.”
“I’m not following you.”
“The windows?” Zorn ventured.
“The body! On the field!”
Gertrude’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
“Topher, don’t be an idiot. Mr. Floyd told us not to mention that to anyone.”
“Yes, yes. But I interpreted that as more of a dare than an order, and the Bill family has never backed down from a dare.”
“Which is more important,” Zorn said, rolling his eyes.
Gertrude worried his fingers, doe-eyed.
“Topher, please.”
“What? Did you really think I would let something as colossal as a dead body go uninvestigated?”
Gertrude hunched over the table.
“You yourself said it was dangerous.” He put on his best conspiratorial whisper. “Mr. Floyd is omniscient. He knows when I’ve pooped!”
“I know. But what can he do, after all? Turn us in for pooping?”
Zorn tried reason.
“Topher, it does seem risky. And considering that just by being here we are in enough trouble as it is.”
“Dead body?” Grimm grumbled.
“Sssssst!” Gertrude said, his face sinking to the table, his eyes gone wild.
“Gertrude, shut up,” Topher said. “And get up. You draw more attention to yourself like that than were you sitting there naked with a flaming torch sticking out of your ass. And yes, Marvin. A dead body. On the athletic fields. This morning.”
Gertrude jabbed his finger at Zorn.
“He found it.”
“I did not!” Zorn jabbed back. “He . . . he!”
“Me!”
“It doesn’t matter who found it!” Topher said. “What matters is that we saw it. It exists. And now we must discover the murderer.”
“Why?” Gertrude said. “Why can’t we just let it alone?”
“Because that boy wasn’t just killed. He was mauled. Turned into organ meat salad. Any one of us could be next.” Gertrude wanted to respond but couldn’t. Topher was right. “If we want to be prepared, we need to know what did this to him.”
“What exactly did it look like?” I, Dennis asked. “The body?”
“Ah, I, Dennis,” Topher said. “Now you’re thinking like a sleuth. The condition of the body is directly related to the method of murder. A gunshot wound to the head yields a hunt for the specific gun that fired it. Same for a knife wound or a bludgeoned skull. Alas, our task is much more difficult.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because,” someone else said. A boy sitting right behind Topher. “Like you said, the body you found was all mangled up.”