A middle-aged man and two redheads

In the hallway you see a well built man in his forties standing with two teary-eyed redheads with long slender builds.

"I'm Mr. Carter, are you the Dean of Students?" The man must be one of the new teachers, he looks furious about something. The other bit of incongruous information is the smears of red paint that covered the two teenagers shirts.

"Yes, Kyle Hawkfeather. What seems to be the problem?"

"I caught these two spoiled young ladies spray-painting graffiti on my bedroom walls." That explains the tears on the freckled faces of the two students, but not the level of repressed emotion on the man's face.

"You'd better come in then." Once in your office you separate the three before any of them can say anything. The last thing you need is a torrent of accusations and excuses before you can determine what actually happened. Luckily, the desk has a stack of lined paper yellowed with age, and a collection of neatly sharpened Ticonderoga pencils.

"Before you or the girls say anything, Mr. Carter, I'd like you to put as much of the incident as you can remember down in writing."

"Please, Mr. Hawkfeath-" One of the two redheads, a tiny bit taller and perhaps a little older than the other starts to speak, but you interrupt her before she can finish what she was going to say.

"You'll get your chance Miss, but first I want you to put what you know in writing." It took the three about five minutes to finish their accounts and you take the time to put your shirt and tie back on. Best look the part, even if you are playing this by ear.

You have them sit quietly as you read through the different narations. The girls both wrote with similar cursive script, one account almost twice as long as the other. Mr. Carter's description of what he saw was the shortest of the three and written in a blocky heavy-handed print, he also placed his phone on his paper with the picture he took of the damage done to his room.