Mr. Hunefeld started teaching math the year you graduated. He was part of one of those “teach for a couple of years and we’ll pay for your college” programs, but fell in love with the job and stayed on once his contract was up. Being a math whiz, binomial equations and Riemann sums come naturally to him, and he’s even had some math theory published in journals, making him well known to universities nationwide. Some of his more advanced classes, like Calculus and Trigonometry, are known to be ridiculously challenging for all but the brightest, and students know that an A+ in one of those classes is a golden ticket to scholarships. On the downside, he often overestimates what should be expected from high school students under his instruction, and his coworkers tend to regard him as being rather arrogant. Administratively, he’s been reprimanded on numerous occasions for failing too many students, which has brought Valley View High under scrutinous watch from the State Superintendent. It’s been rumored that recent budget cuts are a direct result of the large number of students he’s failed, and that Principal Roy has been looking for a math teacher who better understands the financial equations of his school.

Mr. Hunefeld breathes onto his glasses then cleans them with the tail of his colorful Hawaiian button-up. “No statistical calculation could have predicted something like this,” he says, shaking his head.

“Ah, I was hoping you’d be here tonight. You were one of my brightest students. I always look forward to catching up with those possessing the magnitude of mind to illuminate the world, rather than darken it. Tragically, the circumstances of this reunion are not as pleasant as I wished. Of course, I have my theories on who did it, as I’m confident that you too will be able to surmise the identity of the culprit and solve this troubling equation. What did I see? Not much, to be honest. Upon arrival, I observed the Principal in the kitchen, preparing hors d’oeuvres. Coach Flannigan was glaring at trophies on the shelf, no doubt dismayed that none of them were won by him. The Art Teacher, Miss Lehman, looked as though she had been crying, so I struck up a conversation with her. After getting riled up about the budget cuts, of which I have nothing to do with, she said she needed some fresh air and invited me to join her out back. Looking around, I noticed the coach had disappeared down the hall, the Principal had absconded to his bedroom, I believe, and Vice Principal Alden was, not surprisingly, nowhere to be seen. So, I poured a drink for Miss Lehman and myself, and joined her outside. I must have startled her, because she screamed. Though, perhaps it was the hunkering apparition of Vice Principal Alden, slinking suspiciously around the side of the house, which procured the piercing yawp from Miss Lehman’s vocal chords. Abrasively, he pushed by us both and entered Principal Roy’s residence. He was holding his head, as if injured, and as I followed him inside it was clear that there had been some sort of altercation. Principal Roy was collapsed with a pool of blood around his head. A bloodied trophy rested at the feet of Mrs. Marcott, the Counselor, whose face was pale with horror. Vice Principal Alden fumbled haphazardly with the body of the Principal, dazed either by shock or by the now protruding horn on his head where some unknown force had most recently found its target. And then there was Coach Flannigan, wet-handed, zipper agape, mouth drawn with a heavy chin, his brain clearly on sabbatical.”