Martin Jamison was a pig and I don't mind that he died, it was time for someone to teach him a lesson. That was the thought of the boys at school that day, but nobody had enough guts to say it out loud, neither did I.

At the canteen I sat at the usual table alone, with headphones in my ears, but without turning on the music. They were all at their tables, exchanging macabre information learned from the news or thanks to some leaks that had reached their ears who knows how. I had enjoyed them all, from the first to the last; from the first hypothesis to the last sentence. From the first suspect to the last convicted. I had seen the nerds drop their books and study the newspapers thoroughly, commenting in a low voice, the nerds fiddling with their mobile phones and sending some kind of photos. I had watched the basketball team glower at anyone who dared to make a joke aloud or let themselves go to a liberating sigh that meant three words: finally it is cracked.

Martin Jamison the pupil of basketball. Martin Jamison the school nightmare.

Now that I think about it, I can admit that he was a nice boy: tall, dark hair combed back according to fashion, he always dressed with tight-fitting clothes and was careful to show his muscles while he strutted in the corridor. But it was certainly not the good idol that his mother boasted on TV.

Martin was not a saint and we all knew it.

Sitting at that table in the cafeteria, I kept scrolling through the page of city news updates with my finger, making it load continuously, hoping to have new news soon: I wanted to know everything about how that bastard had died.

Then an article appeared, a police statement:

Martin Jamison, the idol of basketball found in the woods.

The boy who had been missing for about seven days and whose traces were no longer found was found this night in the woods outside the city. The corpse, swollen, was found among the trees by a stranger who then alerted the police anonymously and disappeared: "Martin Jamison is in the Roxborough Woods, just off the path. He's dead." The call, recorded by the police, is being analyzed to try to understand if the voice is disguised. Meanwhile, the body has been recognized by parents who are clamoring for justice.

The article continued with a harrowing request from the mother who could not explain what could have happened to her son and with the useless guesses of the journalist. Then, finally, the interesting part came:

The boy's car was not found and therefore further tracks cannot be excluded. From the signs found on the neck, however, it would seem that the boy died by strangulation, perhaps attempting suicide, the reasons that could have pushed the young talent of Denver to such gesture remain to be understood. The police are proceeding with the investigation and invites anyone who has had contact with Martin Jamison to collaborate in the case.

So this was the end of Jamison? Had he taken a rope, passed it around his neck and hung himself from a tree until his lungs stopped receiving oxygen and his heart stopped?

The great Martin Jamison stopped only by himself. It made sense.

I had always known that boy and had seen him combine all sorts of problems: at the age of six he had lowered his trousers in front of Amanda Garring making her burst into tears. At twelve he had stolen Carl Dorson's bicycle and coaxed him to walk home and lie to his parents. He had set fire to the science classroom, put cameras in the girls' changing rooms, persecuted every single nerd in the school, forcing him to do his homework and threatening him with death if he refused. I had seen her hand a flower to Jessica Marslow with one hand and touch Karen Marshall's breast with the other. I had seen him close every single nerd in the bathrooms of the school and pour him buckets of fresh urine.

that all this was too great a burden for a seventeen-year-old boy?

The nerds on the right stood up and passed their phones, one of them broke away to sit at the geek table and show him something on the screen. In short, the news was on everyone's lips.

When I arrived home with a smile, that evening, I immediately noticed the police car stopped in the driveway of the house next to mine, but I didn't stop, I went into the house whistling and happily humming an invented tune.

<<Amber, Stop it!>>

My father had rushed into the living room to getme a head wash.

<< Jamisons next door have just lost their son! A little respect! >>

I shrugged my shoulders. The disappointment appeared on my father's face, so marked that I thought he would slap me. Fortunately, the newscast theme made us jump and fall into the living room.

<< What a Fuc...?>> my father shouted, reading the title in the foreground.

In spite of the respectful mourning for the neighbors!

The TV was broadcasting blurry photos made by some hidden camera at the place of the discovery during forensics surveys. Martin's body had been specifically blurred, but it was unmistakable in the eyes of those who saw it every day. My eye fell on the title and I sat down to listen to the final part of the service:

"The traces found on the boy's neck could be traced back to a strangulation and not to a suicide attempt, furthermore the skullcap, completely broken, makes us think of an aggression. The boy was found without a wallet and we do not yet know where both the car on which, on Saturday night, he had moved away from home to never make it back. Let us remember that Martin Jamison drove a dark blue Porche and whoever saw it these days is asked to turn immediately to the center. from all these clues and the anonymous call, whose voice is counterfeit, that Martin Jamison did not take his own life that night. We are talking, gentlemen listeners, of a murder case. "

Murder. Martin Jamison had been killed by someone, a person he perhaps knew well. And at Denver High School everyone had a reason to want him out of the games.