Double Pass

by David Chill

  "I guess police interrogations have their limitations," I said with a smile. "The private sector can be more efficient in this area."

  Gail rolled her eyes. "We have to live by a set of rules in society. We can't have people taking the law into their own hands."

  "Don't tell me you're prosecuting the homeowner for protecting his property?"

  "No. The City Attorney's planning a run for Mayor next cycle. Wouldn't be good politics to go after a burglary victim, regardless of whether he was recklessly disregarding the law. Or whether he was engaging in torture."

  "I doubt the burglars will file a civil suit."

  "They're both looking at five-to-ten in San Quentin. They have larger issues on their plate."

  At that point, Marcus walked over to us. "Mommy," he started, putting his pail on the sand.

  "Yes, Marcus?" Gail asked.

  "I have a question."

  "Go ahead, sweetheart."

  "What's torture mean?" he asked, eyes wide and innocent.

  I looked at Gail. She turned and looked back at me. I glanced back out at the distant horizon. It did not seem so perfect any longer.

  *

  After spending the better part of our Sunday at the beach, I did indeed have to carry Marcus up the narrow path along the palisade bluffs. And though Gail managed to slather him generously with sunscreen, she somehow forgot to do the tops of his feet, which were now very pink. Some aloe gel helped with the pain, and a barbecued hot dog seemed to divert his attention, at least for a little while. I grilled burgers for Gail and myself, and we ended what was largely a nice day, even though there was a brief interlude where we both stumbled valiantly through an extremely vague and sugar-coated definition of torture.

  I slept long into Monday morning, somehow dozing through whatever activity the jets at Santa Monica Airport were engaged in. I was planning to go to Pasadena, but there was no need to get there early. In fact, no need to get there prior to the start of football practice. I stopped by my office, did some paperwork, and right before I was about to leave, fielded a call from Rebecca Linzmeier. She informed me her boyfriend had set up yet another dinner tomorrow night, and she wanted me to conduct another stakeout. This time she wanted to find out what room her boyfriend would be in. I started to regret offering her a sliding scale.

  "I want to catch him in the act," she said.

  Once again, I cautioned her against doing so, but she was resolute. And I finally acknowledged that a peaceful confrontation might be the only way to get closure here. I asked if she owned a gun and she said no. I asked if she could control herself enough to prevent this from unfolding into a melee worthy of a Jerry Springer segment. There was a long silence followed by a meek objection, but I was firm in my position. This was the only way I'd help her. She agreed, but I thought I heard a gulp on the other end of the line. I told her I'd accompany her, and I insisted she only use her words and absolutely nothing else. As I drove up to Pasadena, I replayed the conversation in my mind. I couldn't escape the unsettled feeling that I had been speaking to a grossly immature woman whose emotional barometer was approaching that of a small child. Marcus struck me as having more control over himself than did Rebecca Linzmeier. She was only about 35 years older than him.

  The St. Dismas players were already lined up on the field, stretching and getting ready for practice. I climbed up the bleachers and took a seat by myself. The atmosphere was quiet and subdued, as was often the case following a tough loss. There were a few people watching from the stands, but they struck me as parents, not college scouts. Duke Savich tried to provide a spark, but the players were only going through the motions. There was little energy. And when they lined up to scrimmage, I noticed a player wearing number 19 had taken his place over the center, barking signals. Austin Bainbridge was the new quarterback. I heard someone a few rows below me yell out encouragement. Looking down, I saw Dash Farsakian's husky frame draped over two rows, wearing a green t-shirt and watching the practice, a can of Arizona Iced Tea in his hand. I climbed down and sat next to him.

  "Not practicing today?" I asked.

  "Oh, hi," Dash replied and then shook his head. "Sprained my ankle at the end of the De La Salle game."

  "Tough loss."

  "Yeah. I feel terrible. The player that knocked out Noah was my guy. I missed the block. I thought he was going to take an outside route, but when I slid that way, he cut inside, and my ankle gave out. Guy had a super quick first step. Noah didn't stand a chance back there."

  "You were battling him pretty good most of the way. I was there, I saw it. You have nothing to be ashamed about."

  "I guess. But I know there were some big-name college scouts in the crowd. Bad time to miss a key block. You wouldn't happen to still have some pull with the SC coaches?"

  I shook my head. "Different regime, sorry. But try not to beat yourself up over it. You're good enough to get a scholarship somewhere. And trust me, not everyone playing in the NFL comes out of an elite college program. Plenty of them went to mid-majors."

  "Yeah," he said blankly.

  "Best thing you can do is try and forget about that missed block," I said, knowing it was unlikely. This was the type of mistake a good player would replay a hundred times in his head, trying to make the result come out differently. It's a team game, but sometimes a game turns on one play, and that hit to Noah was the one.

  "It's tough to do," he sighed.

  "Sure. Too bad that your ankle gave out at the wrong time."

  "Actually, I had tweaked it last week in practice. Was doing okay with it until that play. Doc says to stay off it for a few days."

  I looked out onto the field. The grass seemed wet and slick. "Lot of practice injuries here?"

  "Yeah. I don't know what the deal is with the sprinklers. Some days it's like a swamp out there. We've lost a number of guys in practice. They say injuries are a part of the game, but it's tough. You lose a guy who's a big part of the team and it changes everything. I know about this next man up thing, but it doesn't always work. And losing Noah on Friday was critical. I love Austin, but Noah was special."

  "Will Noah be back?" I asked.

  "I dunno. His mother doesn't want him to. But she never wanted him to play in the first place. Man, dealing with parents sucks. Mine are either breaking up or getting back together."

  I took a breath. "How well are you acquainted with Noah?"

  "I've only known Noah a couple of years. But there's something that's always been different about him. On the field, he's like this robo-quarterback, perfect in so many ways. He rarely makes a mistake. When he does, if he overthrows a receiver or something, he's tougher on himself than anyone. That's why a lot of the guys hate Savich. When we screw up, Savich is all over us. That doesn't work with Noah. A player like that needs a different kind of coach. Coach Curly seemed to be able to get through to him better."

  "Pretty astute observation."

  "I guess."

  "So how do you think Austin will do as quarterback?"

  Dash shrugged. "Okay. I hope he does well. It's what he's always wanted. Austin has a good arm. But he has hasn't played quarterback in two years. And I don't know how the team will respond. Once you play with a guy like Noah, you see how far he can throw, that rocket arm and all. It's difficult to get behind anyone else."

  "Mmm-hmmm," I agreed. "No doubt. Quarterback's the most important position on the field. Have you heard if Noah is out of the hospital?"

  "Not yet. I saw him yesterday, they finally started allowing visitors in. He'll be all right. They got him to the E.R. quick. He's a little shaken up, but physically he'll be okay."

  "Did you notice anything odd about Noah's behavior last week?" I asked. "Anything that could explain why he did it?"

  "Yeah, something was weird. He seemed worried during the game on Friday. Real nervous and stuff."

  "What do you see?"

  "He was tentative. Even in warm-ups. Maybe all the pregame hype, the TV cameras. Then the game st
arted, and he really didn't have it. Didn't go through his progressions. But every now and then you'd see the real Noah. He'd drill a throw. Squeeze it right into that little window quarterbacks talk about. Then he'd get distracted about something. I guess anyone can have a bad game. But I've never seen it happen to Noah."

  "Anything going on with him outside of school?" I asked.

  Dash shrugged again. "I dunno."

  I heard a noise behind the bleachers. It sounded like a gasp at first, maybe a moan. I looked down but didn't see anything. Then there was more moaning, followed by the rasp of someone cursing. Dash and I looked at each other, puzzled. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a blur, the movement of someone racing out from under the bleachers. It was the team's equipment manager, Colin Holder. He tore around the corner of the bleachers, out of breath and hunched over.

  "What's the matter, Colin?" Dash yelled.

  "Someone call 9-1-1. Now! This guy's on the ground. He ain't moving, he's bleeding!"

  We both got up, but I was the one with the good legs, so I ran quickly down and around the bleachers until I reached the underside. I saw a man lying on the ground, face down in the wet grass. Blood was all over the place. One feature jumped out at me. There was no mistaking the shiny, sunburned bald head. I rolled the man over and shook him hard, but he didn't move. I checked his pulse, but there was none. Bob Greenland's eyes were open, but it was an empty and vacuous look that stared back at me. His throat had been cut and there was blood coming out of his upper torso. There was no need to call paramedics. It looked like he had been dead for a while.

  Chapter 11

  It was, to quote a famous man, deja vu all over again. Medical trucks, police cruisers, and news vans lined the street outside St. Dismas High School. The Pasadena police instructed all the players to stay on the practice field and not leave the area until the detectives had interviewed them. Duke Savich tried to protest that his players knew nothing about this, but Al Diamond quickly, and rather emphatically, told him to shut up or the coach would give his statement in handcuffs down at the station.

  Most of the players sat down quietly and patiently on the grass. The detectives were methodical but thorough. And though it took him a little while, Hugh Turco finally made his way over to me, bringing his acerbic wit along with him. As much as I had wished to be interviewed by his partner, lady luck was not on my side today. Al Diamond was off interviewing someone else.

  "Well, I guess I shouldn't be too surprised," Turco said. "You're one of the first ones to find the body. Just happen to have the knack of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, eh Burnside?"

  "Some guys have the gift," I said. "How was your fishing trip? Shoot any bass? My guess is they were moving too quickly for you. Maybe you should have brought along an assault rifle."

  "Still the smart aleck. Okay. Why don't you give me your story here. Or your alibi. Whatever's easier for you to make up."

  I told him every relevant thing I had seen and done at St. Dismas today, which took barely more than thirty seconds. Turco made a motion with his fingers indicating he wanted something additional.

  "That's all there is," I said, raising my palms skyward, knowing that too many smart remarks now would earn me another trip to the police station. "I was talking with one of the players in the stands. The equipment manager came running over and yelling. I went over and found the body."

  "You know this guy, this Greenland?"

  "I talked with him once. Recently. During the football game last Friday night. Can't say we had a deep conversation. Nothing that would lead me to believe someone would kill him. Frankly, I thought he'd get a heart attack first."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "His son plays for the team. Maybe you've heard of him. Noah Greenland?"

  Turco shook his head. "Not before last week's shooting over here. I got better things to do than waste my time watching football. Stupid game."

  "I imagine it can be hard to follow," I said, noticing Turco's eyes narrowing, and then hastened to add, "if you aren't familiar with the rules and all."

  "Yeah," he responded slowly. "So who was this Greenland mad at? His son? The other team?"

  "He was ticked at pretty much everyone. But he had a few choice words for the coach. Didn't like the plays he was calling."

  "Uh-huh. The coach is that Savich guy? The one who got annoyed that a murder investigation was interfering with his practice?"

  "One and the same," I said.

  "We'll give him a good grilling later. So tell me more about the dead guy."

  "Bob."

  "Huh?"

  "His name was Bob. Bob Greenland," I said, figuring at the very least, Noah's father could get the courtesy of being referred to as something other than 'the dead guy.'

  "Yeah, yeah. What else do you know about him?"

  "Used to be a coach here. A few years ago. He got fired. Apparently had a run-in with a parent. Some dad got mouthy with him and Bob tossed the guy through a door."

  "Sounds like a tough hombre," Turco mused.

  "I suppose. But he lost his job because of it."

  "And maybe that dad has a long memory," Turco said. "Got a name?"

  I thought for a moment. "Pretty sure it was Stan Weekes. One of the parents could confirm it. Don't know much more."

  "We'll check him out. What about the kid. This Noah. Think there's anything there?"

  I looked at him oddly. "You think Noah had something to do with his father getting killed?"

  "Wouldn't be the first time."

  "No," I said, thinking back to a case some years ago, where a son shot his father to death in cold blood. But that was unique in many ways, including the fact that the guy pulling the trigger made his living as a paid assassin.

  "This Noah get along with his dad?" Turco asked.

  "Don't know them well enough," I said. "Like I told you, I only spoke to the dad once, and that was brief. Same with the son. The kid obviously had problems. But this? I don't know. Hard to figure."

  "Got to ask," Turco said. "You know the drill."

  "There's something else," I added reluctantly.

  "What?" he asked.

  "I don't know the relevance here, but I heard Bob was hitting on one of the other player's moms. Name's Talley Kingston. As you might imagine, her husband wasn't pleased."

  Turco's head bobbed up and down excitedly at this news. "I like that. What's the name of the husband?"

  "Buzz," I said. "Buzz Kingston."

  "Okay," Turco said, jotting it down on a pad of paper. "Now we're getting somewhere. I like it when P.I.'s cooperate."

  "Look, I don't know what might come of this. Talley Kingston said she turned Bob down flat."

  "Well, it's something to go on anyway," he said.

  "Sure," I said. One clue often leads to another, and then another. If you gather enough of them, you can sometimes piece things together. That is, if you know what you're doing, and my reluctance was based to doubting Turco would have the necessary diligence or brainpower to unravel this puzzle. But withholding information from the police was not always advisable, and could even cost me my license, so it was better to share.

  "I heard you tried to help us out the other day," he said.

  "Just doing my civic duty."

  "Nice of you. But too bad that blade Savich had didn't match up. Would have made things easy for us, knife sitting right in the coach's office. Our forensics guys said this wasn't the weapon that killed Fowler."

  "Pretty fast determination. They run DNA testing that quick?" I asked. While some DNA evidence could be determined in a few hours, most required at least a week. And given the backup in most labs, it was not uncommon to take a few weeks. Or longer.

  "Nah. They did it the old-fashioned way. The blade that killed Fowler was serrated. The knife in the coach's office was a straight blade. Actually, I'd be surprised if that knife Savich had could even cut a salami, it was so dull. Blind alley, Burnside. Do better next time."

  "W
orth a shot," I said and then looked around to see where Dash was. He was still sitting over in the bleachers, well beyond hearing distance. "You interview Vicki Sailor?"

  "Of course we interviewed her," Turco sniffed. "Her story makes no sense. She said she walked in on Fowler doing the nasty on his desk. Yeah, maybe Fowler was banging someone, but an old broad like that? That Skye's got to be 45, at least. With all this young stuff running around here? C'mon. I think this Vicki Sailor may be making the whole thing up. She's on our radar."

  "Meaning?" I frowned.

  "We know she had a thing for Fowler. Used to go up to his office a lot to chat. Or whatever. Maybe she did see him with someone else, who knows. Maybe that set off something in her. Yeah, Vicki Sailor's story matched up with what she told you. Doesn't mean it was the truth. Or made any sense."

  Nothing about Vicki Sailor had set off any warning bells with me. While I wasn't always perfect at reading people, I had at least become pretty good. Most of the time. But standard police protocol was to treat everyone as a suspect and view their stories through a jaundiced eye. I had a bad feeling about this. Sometimes people are indeed lying, and good detectives have a radar for it. They need to be able to get suspects and witnesses to feel comfortable enough to open up in front of them. This could be a difficult art for detectives like Turco, who came slathered in a thick coat of people-repellant.

  "I hope you have a little more to go on than just this," I managed.

  "We're working it," he said. "We found something of hers in Fowler's office. She was doing her teacher, no doubt in my mind."

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah, can't talk about it yet. But we're on to something. Murder and sex. The two sure seem to go together," Turco said.

  As he proceeded to prattle on about how smart he was, one of the medical examiners came over and whispered something into Turco's ear. He bobbed his head up and down enthusiastically, told the medico he was doing good work, and patted him on the back.

  "Crack the case?" I asked.

  "Man, oh, man," he bellowed. "It's unbelievable what our guys do! These M.E. techs, they think of everything. The stiff isn't even in the morgue yet, but these guys have the presence of mind to check him out."