Outline for Murder

by Anthony J. Pucci

  ***

  Two burly young men arrived in an ambulance to transport the body to the morgue, a somber but routine task for them. As they got out of their vehicle, Bishop was there to meet them.

  “Mr. Bishop, I’m Tom Nelson and this is my partner, Jerry Milone. I had you for English 9.” He extended his beefy hand.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Nice to see you, Tom. Nice to meet you, Jerry.” Jerry’s hand was beefy, too. One of the occupational hazards of teaching in a small town for a number of years was that he frequently bumped into former students. Most of the time, he really didn’t mind at all, especially if he remembered the student’s name.

  “Thanks for getting here so quickly.”

  “I understand we have a deceased male inside,” said Jerry, as they pulled a stretcher from the back of their vehicle.

  “Yes, he’s lying beside the sofa in the living room. That’s where I found him when I came in. The door had been unlocked.” Then he added, “You know, it’s Coach Zappala.”

  “Really?” Although Tom had graduated long before Zappala had arrived, in a small town like Groveland, a high school football coach, especially a successful one, was something of a celebrity. “It’s such a shame. I bet it’ll be hard on the kids at school.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it will be.”

  Just then a police cruiser pulled into the driveway and onto the grass. Two officers emerged from the car, neither bothering to close the door. One of them shouted to the EMTs as they were about to enter the house. “Hold on a minute! We need to get in there first. You ought to know that.”

  “Sure, no problem,” said Tom. “We weren’t going to touch anything,” he added defensively.

  The other officer approached Bishop. He was clearly near retirement age. Heavy jowls were the most prominent feature of his face, and his belt was partially obscured by his considerable belly. If there was any chasing of criminals to be done, this was not your man. “I’m Lieutenant Hodge. I take it you’re the one who called this in.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant. My name is Michael Bishop. I found the body near the sofa. I felt for a pulse, but he was gone. I accidentally bumped into the table next to the recliner, and some snacks fell on the floor. I cleaned that up as best I could. Other than that, nothing has been disturbed.”

  If that information bothered Hodge, he didn’t let it show. He seemed to ignore the small speaker attached to the shoulder of his uniform that was squawking intermittently. He introduced Bishop to his partner, Officer Williams, a much younger and trimmer man. The three men went into the house together. “Mr. Bishop, what were you doing here this morning?” asked Hodge.

  Bishop recounted the phone call that he had received from Sister Ann. Although that seemed hours ago, only about twenty minutes had passed.

  “How did you get in the house?”

  “I knocked on the door several times, but then I realized that it was unlocked.”

  “Really?”

  Williams, who had been checking the door and windows, said that there was no sign of a forced entry.

  After checking the body for any wounds or visible signs of a struggle, Hodge gave the okay for Nelson and Milone to remove the body. “Take him to the Coroner’s Office. Under the circumstances, an autopsy will be required.”

  Bishop didn’t want to stay there any longer than he had to. “Lieutenant, would it be all right if I go now? I’ve got classes to teach,” although as he said it, he wondered just how much teaching he would get done that day. The kids were bound to be upset. They’d probably want to talk. What he really wanted to do was go back in time to that moment before he had taken Sister Ann’s call.

  “Sure, no problem. I can contact you at school if I have any questions.” The perfunctory manner in which he spoke these words led Bishop to believe that the likelihood of receiving such a call was minimal. Then Hodge added, “Say, do you remember Wendy Hodge?”

  Bishop hesitated for a moment. Over his forty-five years at Trinity, he had taught literally thousands of students. Not all of them stood out. Some were quite memorable. In fact, scores of former students kept in touch. Others that he would sooner forget were memorable as well. Wendy Hodge didn’t fall into either category. “The name sounds familiar. I take it that she attended Trinity?”

  “Sure did. Damn near put me in the poor house sending that girl there. Groveland High is a perfectly good school. Went there myself, but all of her friends were going to Trinity so that was that.”

  “What year did she graduate?”

  “’87? ’88? Somewhere in there,” he said as he removed his hat to reveal a military-style buzz cut.

  Bishop laughed. “Well, that is quite a few years ago.” He didn’t feel quite so bad about not remembering Hodge’s daughter. “I’ll have to look her up in the yearbook. Once I see a face, I usually remember the person.”

  “Me, too,” Hodge said, “although in my case I’m looking at mugshots.”

  “What’s Wendy doing these days?”

  Hodge smiled for the first time since he had arrived on the scene. “She’s married, with three little ones, and a fourth on the way.” It seemed as though he was going to pull out some photos, but he just tugged at his gadget-laden belt.

  “Well, congratulations! Please give her my best.”

  “I will. Thanks.” Hodge headed back into the house, and Bishop turned toward his car.

  Just as Bishop realized that his car was blocked in the driveway by the ambulance, Ron Jennings pulled up. He left his car on the side of the road, and sprinted up to Bishop. He was a tall man, in his mid-thirties and athletic. He was wearing a white shirt, striped tie, and khakis. Ron was an easy-going guy who enjoyed his job and got along well with the kids. He was always there to help out a teacher or a student when needed. No one had to ask; he always seemed to know what to say or do. Except now.

  “I got here as fast as I could. How are you doing?”

  “Me? I’m fine, I guess. It’s just a shock, you know? To come in and find him lying there…” His voice trailed off a bit. The next word would have been, “dead.”

  “No kidding! I’m just glad that I wasn’t the one to find him. Not too sure how well I would have handled that.” He ran his fingers through his light brown hair as if that would somehow erase those doubts from his mind.

  “I’m sure you would have risen to the occasion just as you have so many times at school,” replied Bishop as he thought of how deftly Jennings had navigated some difficult situations at school in the five years since he had become an assistant principal.

  “Are you thinking of going to school?”

  “Yes, I am.” Going to school was what he had done for most of his life. He hadn’t planned on retiring just yet, but this sudden reminder of life’s uncertainties might force him to reconsider exactly what he wanted to do in his golden years. Putting these thoughts aside for the moment, he said, “I just need to wait until I can get my car out.” As he said that, the two first responders were wheeling out the stretcher with the body of Coach Zappala covered by white sheets strapped to it.

  “Mike, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Ron had his hand on Bishop’s shoulder as he offered his advice. “You’ve just been through a very disturbing experience. The kids won’t be up for any literature discussions today anyway. I really think that you should take the day off. I’ll get your classes covered. No problem. Get home and try to relax a little bit.”

  “Well,” said Bishop, “I guess you might be right. I hate to miss class, but considering the circumstances, I think I will take you up on that offer.” He began looking forward to settling down in his favorite chair in the sunroom with a good book, some classical music playing in the background, and a cup of hot tea.

  Bishop drove the short distance back to his own place. As far as he was concerned, the worst of it was over. As it turned out, he was wrong.

  ***

  After Sister Ann interrupted classes just before the end of the period to make the announcemen
t about the unexpected death of Coach Zappala, the student body fell into an eerie silence. It was suddenly as quiet as if all of the students were taking a final examination. When the announcement ended, students went out into the halls to get their books for the next class. Sister had said that anyone who wanted to talk with one of the guidance counselors or with Fr. Mahoney, the chaplain, would be allowed to do so.

  Stephanie Harris, a first-year teacher at Trinity, was in the break room when the announcement was made. Her interests in running and in nutrition made her a model of physical fitness. Although she had only been teaching for a matter of weeks, she carried herself like a veteran. Her youthful enthusiasm and caring personality had made her an instant favorite with both her colleagues and her students.

  “Oh my, how sad!” she muttered, more to herself than to Mary Nickerson, a math teacher who had the same prep period. She was about ten years older than Stephanie and about fifty pounds heavier. Her weakness for junk food made controlling her weight a constant challenge.

  Mary grabbed a few napkins to wipe her hands of the residue from the bag of corn curls she had just polished off. She started weeping softly. “How can I teach next period, Steph? What will I say to the kids?”

  “You’ll be fine. Just remember what Sister Ann said. If some students need to talk, there are people available to help. A lot of them might actually prefer to simply carry on with the day’s lessons. Just see how it goes. I wouldn’t give a test or anything, but we’ll get through this.” If it was embarrassing for a veteran to receive advice from a rookie, Mary didn’t seem to care.

  “I guess you’re right. Well, I better get a move on. You too. I don’t want you to be late because of me. I’m fine now. Thanks, Steph.”

  “What lunch do you have today?”

  “Second.”

  “Me too,” said Stephanie. “I’ll see you then.”

  Mary gathered her papers and headed off to class. Jack Slater, the school’s custodian, had observed the exchange between Stephanie and Mary. A veteran of the Vietnam War, Jack split his school day between doing his job and doing his best to know everyone else’s business. As soon as Mary left, Jack remarked, “That one sure is a drama queen.” As he spoke, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

  Refusing to take the bait, Steph looked at the clock on the wall, picked up her belongings, and said, “Well, I have a class waiting for me.”

  The halls that were normally so full of youthful exuberance were understandably subdued. Some students were crying. Others were asking their friends if they thought that a Chemistry test scheduled for later that day would be postponed. Some wondered whether they would get a day out of school for the funeral. One of the football players asked a teacher if he knew whether practice was still on.

  A number of students went to the chapel to pray and to comfort each other. Some faculty members were there as well. In the office, Terry fielded a number of calls as word began to spread. Among them were calls from Russ Chandler and Doug Sanders, two of the assistant football coaches. Each wanted to know if Friday’s game would be postponed. No decision on that or much of anything else had been made yet. Each of the coaches also wanted to let the principal know that he was interested in the now vacant position of head football coach. So much for mourning the dead.

  Chapter 3

  As soon as Bishop got home, he went into his bedroom and changed out of his school clothes and into a long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Since there was a chill in the house, he also put on a hooded fleece with a full zipper down the front.

  He was still feeling a bit shaky, so he decided to make himself a cup of hot tea. While the Earl Grey was steeping, he selected Bach’s “The Well-Tempered Clavier” from his sizeable collection of classical CDs and placed it in the player in the sunroom.

  With cup in hand, he sat in his favorite chair, put his feet up on the ottoman, and looked out on his backyard. There was a time after his wife died when he had thought seriously about selling the home that they had shared for over thirty years. Grace was only fifty-eight when she passed away. He relived that painful memory less often than he did eight years ago, but it was no less painful to recall it now.

  Grace had been a very successful real estate agent. She enjoyed the flexibility in her schedule, and her outgoing personality made her a natural. She sometimes teased him about the fact that she earned about twice the income that he did while working about half the time. Teaching in a Catholic school, his income in the early days was one step above eligibility for food stamps. However, with two incomes and no children, they managed quite nicely. Never ones to live beyond their means, they had even managed to save for a comfortable retirement. It was a retirement that she would never get to enjoy and one that he had so far stubbornly refused to begin.

  Grace was so successful in her work that she often earned bonuses and other gifts. That year, she won an all-expenses-paid trip for two to Las Vegas for five nights. Bishop had no interest in Vegas and hated the thought of taking a week off from school. Since the tickets had to be used by the end of October, she decided to ask one of her coworkers, Kim Reynolds, to accompany her. Not long after she arrived in Vegas, Grace became violently ill. She thought she had food poisoning, so she stayed in her room while Kim hit the slots. When Kim returned to their room, she found Grace unconscious on the bathroom floor. She was taken immediately to a local hospital where she died of peritonitis. Although it was rare at her age, her appendix had burst. Had she not ignored the early symptoms, she would still be alive.

  The death of Albert Zappala had brought back the nightmarish days that followed receiving the news of the death of his wife. He had some sense of what the Zappala family was experiencing.

  ***

  That belief turned out to be incorrect. Apparently, Zappala had been estranged from his family. His funeral and burial were to take place in Groveland. Only his nephew, Rocco Santorini, planned on attending the service. At Holy Trinity, the rest of the week was a bit surreal. After the initial shock and tears, the kids were ready to get back to their normal routines. Although that seemed cold in a way, Bishop thought that perhaps it was best after all. It reminded him of the family response to the unexpected loss of a boy in “‘Out, Out’” by Robert Frost. They, too, had no choice but to get on with their lives. The funeral was held that Friday. Sister Ann had decided to cancel classes for the day so that the all those who wanted to would be able to attend the service. Friday night’s football game was rescheduled for the following day.

  As he thought more about it, Bishop realized that he knew absolutely nothing about his family. Zappala never said much about his personal life. To some of the male faculty, he had expressed no regrets about never having married. “I get what I want when I want it,” was the way he had phrased it to Bishop not long after he had taken the job at Trinity. Sister Ann’s policy was that a teacher’s personal life was just that, personal, as long as it didn’t interfere with job performance. It also helped that Zappala had quickly earned a place on Sister’s “A” list. No one knew how he had done that, but it was clear that being on that list had its perks.

  Bishop wondered if she had known about his drinking problem from the outset. Would she have been reluctant to hire him or would she have felt that he could change his ways? Despite having worked for her since she had become the principal about twenty years earlier, Bishop often was at a loss to explain some of her decisions. As a coach known throughout the state, she probably hadn’t asked too many questions. She would have been thrilled that he was willing to teach and coach at Trinity for far less money than he was making at Madison. There was an expectation at Trinity that teachers try to live by Christian values, represent the school favorably, and set a good example for the students. Of course, there were occasions when staff members fell short of these expectations, not unlike Sister Ann herself and some of her cohorts living in a convent just a few blocks from the school. As Bishop saw it, the problem was that many of Sister Ann’s
judgments seemed to be governed more by who the individual transgressor was rather than by the transgression itself. All the teachers knew who was on the “A” list and who wasn’t.

  A line of mourners gathered outside the Langone Funeral Home for a brief service before the funeral mass held at the Church of the Redeemer. As people milled around before the service, no one knew quite what to say so the conversations were awkwardly brief. Bishop did a double take when he caught a glimpse of Russ Chandler wearing a white shirt, necktie, and sport coat as opposed to his usual sweatshirt, sweatpants, sneakers, and baseball cap. He looked uncomfortable. The tie was already loosened and his shirt unbuttoned at the top. Zappala’s misfortune had been Chandler’s good fortune. Russ, who had occasionally subbed for the coach, had agreed to work as a long-term sub until a search for a permanent replacement could be completed. Russ was clearly a leading candidate in the search for head football coach since he knew the kids and the program.

  Sister Ann and Sister Patricia were standing at the entrance as if taking mental notes of attendance. Their constant companionship made for some whispered speculation in the school and in the community. In Sister Ann’s view, the day might be a day off from school, but all teachers and staff were expected to attend. The pair had arrived early, determined to be in control of events. While Sister Ann knew well enough how to play the game, Sister Pat, whom some of the students had given an unkind soubriquet, was living proof that the order of the Sisters of The Holy Rosary did not have an entrance exam.

  Bishop greeted both sisters as he prepared himself for this solemn occasion. It was Sister Ann who initiated further conversation with him.

  “That poor man,” Sister Ann began. “We were in a very real sense the only family that he had. I can see why we knew so little about his family. His sister is a pill.” Sister Ann had contacted Zappala’s family in Connecticut to get details on the funeral that she had assumed would be held there.