"You sure you'll be okay here?" he asked. This was the one and only remaining print of all the shots by Ronnie and his partner. If it accidentally got damaged–by me–a potentially critical piece of evidence might be ruined.
I forced my eyes to hold steady.
"Just leave me with some coffee and I'm good for hours," I said with dubious conviction.
Dennis gave me half a frown and another nod then departed to his waiting AVID and this week's work. When I ran out of film, I was to find him so he could thread the second reel onto the flatbed for me. This was crunch time at NFL Films after all; and doing it himself was faster than teaching me how.
Ronnie, however, felt obligated to review the operation of the flatbed a couple more times.
"Enough already," I finally scolded. "You're making me a nervous wreck."
"It's just..."
"I know. The only print."
"No," Ronnie said, causing me to look at his face.
What I saw frayed my nerves even more. His concern had not been for the film at all; it had been for Doug and Michelle and their baby. My palms suddenly began to sweat, my heart raced, my eyes blinked and darted from Ronnie to the controls to the screen in front of me.
"Go get a shower or something, will you?" I finally dismissed him. "Or pull your game, or catch some sleep. Just get out of here. Okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he grumbled, grimacing as he drew himself up. Then he stroked my hair and trailed his fingers across my shoulder before he left.
When he was gone, I took a deep breath, wiped my eyes, and blew my nose.
Then I settled down to watch football with a greater concentration than ever before, greater even than when my Dad's team played for the state championship.
Maybe it was because this was about Doug and Michelle and Baby Jody, but my senses felt intensified, open to nuances that otherwise would have made no impression at all. I began to recognize which of Ronnie's shots were planned and which had capitalized on the luck of the moment–ground shots up past a wreath of huddled helmets to thin blue sky, or huffing runners twisting just out of reach for three more precious yards. I seemed to be inside Ronnie's head, doing his job.
With a flick of his eyes I saw Patrick Dionne's focus shift just before his muffed snap back to Doug.
The first time Doug took a helmet in the ribs I cried, "oof" out loud.
When Tim Duffy took over that first brief time, his posture telegraphed his joy and selfish intentions directly to me. His frustration, his pride, his aggressiveness were transparent, his mental calculations words in my ears.
But silent words, for neither Dennis nor Ronnie had thought to provide me with sound, probably because it was too impractical. Since the audio and video were recorded separately, I remembered Ronnie explaining that they had to be coordinated manually. This was facilitated by a "bloop lite" that marked both tapes with a beep and a flash, the modern version of the striped clapboard of old, "Take One," "Take Two," days. Luckily, the quiet seemed to aid my concentration.
I read volumes into the shot of Bobby Frye leaning his elbows on the edge of the owner's balcony box. Like a perplexed boy watching others enjoy his birthday party, he appeared to observe the distant action with a mixture of happiness and dismay. I had the impression every taste of success would be chewed into unrecognizable bits.
This version of the game included Walker Cross on the sideline right after his benching, his face both grave and haughty. He glared only at the ground, clearly angry, but at whom or what I couldn’t guess even though I re-ran the shot three times.
Shortly thereafter Tim Duffy crossed the camera's path during an Hombres' possession, but I noticed no exchange of any sort between the second-string quarterback and the receiver.
Plenty of shots showed Jack Laneer narrowing his eyes, shouting, folding his arms to await the outcome of a play. He may have been the general overseeing the battle, but since he couldn’t block or tackle or pass for his players he was also a helpless architect whose building often didn’t resemble the plan.
For three and a half solid hours I studied the marriage of athleticism and art. "You guys make us look great," Doug had complimented Ronnie and the other NFL cinematographers, and he was right. Even without the artistic refinements–the slow motion and the music, the color enhancements, the coach’s hollering, the player’s facial expressions and the fan’s delighted cheers–my appreciation for what Ronnie and his company did for professional football multiplied.
Unfortunately, I just couldn't see anything wrong.
Around two when Ronnie came in carrying a paper tray of hamburgers and Cokes, the back of my head throbbed and my eyes felt parched.
"How do you do this?" I asked. "It's hard work."
Ronnie’s smile was fleeting. "You find anything?" he asked.
I showed him my notes.
"Frye, candy store window?" he read with scorn. "What the hell does that mean?"
"Damned if I know."
"You got squat."
"I got squat," I admitted.
"Maybe in the second reel."
I sighed and bit into my hamburger, expecting it to be cold and dry. Instead it was warm and delicious, and I nearly choked.
We ate together in weary silence, then Ronnie set up the second reel.
Much later in the afternoon, toward the end of the game, I noticed Roger Prindel's response to something Tim Duffy said immediately after the final touchdown. During a congratulatory hug Tim accepted Prindel's joyous words, then said something in return that erased the offensive coordinator's smile. Duffy made one more quick remark, then walked away. The film covered the final kick and the game soon ended.
I shut off the machine and leaned back in my chair. Five hours of scrutinizing film and I’d learned nothing new. I rubbed my eyes and considered crying. The tears were there, ready to go, but I felt too overwhelmed and confused to bother. Maybe I’d seen something after all. Maybe I just needed a little time to digest it.
Ronnie was down the hall conferring with Dennis and another young man. My cousin looked grayer and weaker than when the paramedic hauled him off for x-rays.
When Dennis glanced my way, I said, "How about giving this guy a break?"
"Sure, sure," the editor agreed. “Didn’t realize the time. Go. Take care of yourself.” He clapped Ron on the shoulder, the one he fell on last night.
"Drive me to the train?" I suggested when Ronnie and I were alone in the hall. "Then you can go home and crash."
"Deal."
Outdoors it smelled like snow and the overcast sky had a portentous pink cast. When we’d shut ourselves into the van and reached for seatbelts, Ronnie finally addressed the big question. "Didn't find anything?" he guessed.
"If I saw it, it hasn't registered yet."
Ronnie grunted. He’d taken half the shots; he knew how many there were for me to digest.
At the station I leaned back in my door to say goodbye. Neither of us wanted to expend any more energy than necessary; we were that exhausted.
“Sorry,” I told him. “I really wanted to help.” Now tears did slip down my cheeks. I wiped them away with a sleeve.
"Don't worry about it," Ronnie reassured me.
"Not over yet," I said, but neither of us believed it.
Chapter 26
IN PHILADELPHIA'S THIRTIETH Street station I hauled my luggage down the scarcely noticeable hallway to the suburban lines, in particular the R5 Paoli Local, the "Main Line" that would take me home. My stop was toward the end, near where the posh communities gave way to ordinary Pennsylvania countryside.
Smelling of industrial dirt and overheated wool, the train was filled with students and Christmas shoppers even more loaded with bundles than me. Empty trees and frosted back yards sped by our eyes along with stone and brick houses noticeably older than the New Jersey and Virginia ones I had just visited. Yet each abode was somebody’s snug haven, and oh how I longed for mine.
I paid off my taxi at the end of m
y drive at the end of a cul de sac in a neighborhood that was modest by local standards. Beech Tree Lane possessed plenty of elderly oaks and ash and beech, but here and there a mailbox tilted or a shutter begged for paint; and ever since Eunice, the real estate maven, moved away, nobody owned a car worthy of notice. Still, the brief street exuded character and warmth, individuality. Best of all, it sheltered my family–in a barn-red and brick rancher that made my heart flip just at the sight of it.
While I dug out my keys, Gretsky barked as if I were the British and he was Paul Revere. When I finally got inside, he twirled and leaped and infected me with his joy. I crouched down for the ritual sloppy kisses.
"Ginger Struve Barnes as I live and breathe," cooed my mother. During my pet’s love-fest she had emerged from the family room just beyond the kids' bedrooms. She wore pink slacks that complimented her rose-colored glasses and a green Christmas sweatshirt depicting an Irish setter wearing a Santa hat with a jingle bell on the end.
"Hi, Mom. Hi, Gracie," I told Cynthia and her friend, whose approach stopped short of the ecstatic dog. When my mother and I hugged, the bell from her sweatshirt made a painful dent in my ribs. "I'm so glad to see you.”
"You, too." Mom pinched my chin between soft fingers and beamed, her eyes twinkling with an intensity reserved for me and my kids. For Rip she added a mystery ingredient that made them look like co-conspirators.
"Come, come," she said. "We're watching It's a Wonderful Life."
"Sounds good. Just let me get settled, okay?"
Mom nodded and grinned some more, then toddled back to her girlfriend and the classic Christmas movie.
I dropped my luggage up in my room and Rip's, where the bed was a tousled heap of limp sheets and discarded pajamas. The opened door to our walk-in closet revealed a hamper overflowing with inside-out socks and musty clothes.
Towels half covered the adjacent bathroom floor, and the sink was spotted with toothpaste blobs, water stains, and yes, a few stray whiskers. Also, sitting upright on the old toilet paper spool was a new roll, suggesting that the mechanics of the spindle still eluded Rip.
"He needs me," I decided.
Downstairs the contagion continued. Nobody had tidied up the kibble Gretsky spilled when he ate, at least not today. The kitchen sink was littered with pots that needed special attention. An opened loaf of bread spilled onto the counter. In the refrigerator’s hydrator a former lime was now gray mush dusted with white mold, and something in the lunchmeat drawer smelled more pungent than blue cheese.
Peeking into the dining-room/living room area something colorful caught my eye. I walked around to check it out, and there in the corner by the patio door stood an ungainly Christmas tree trimmed with gaudy red tinsel rope and gold satin balls. More tinsel with dangling gold balls had been strung across the tops of each window. The mantle of our stone walk-in fireplace also dripped with the sparkly stuff. From his guard post next to a bowl of unshelled nuts a nutcracker wearing a red uniform and black hat eyed me with the skepticism of a stranger.
"Hi, I’m Gin," I introduced myself. “I usually live here.”
Elsewhere clumps of greens sported more shiny ornaments suggestive of closeout day at the Dollar Store–late in the sale, after all the attractive stuff was gone.
My mother's voice startled me. "I hope you don't mind," she said. "We couldn't find your decorations, but we figured you were so busy helping Michelle that you'd be glad not to have to decorate when you got home."
Speechless, I just hurried over to hug my mother again, uncomfortable bell and all. "It's beautiful," I told her, because to me it was.
With a tight smile and a wave of her hand, she dismissed all she had done as if it was as normal as the rising sun.
"We've got popcorn," she said. "Want some?"
"Of course."
A clamor at the door informed us that Garry was home. Chelsea, I remembered, would still be at volleyball practice.
"Hey," my son greeted me with a sly smile as warm as my mother’s hug. I had been away; now I was back.
"Hey, yourself," I replied, reaching out for the hug he tolerated only in private.
"You ready to see my Ultimate Frisbee tape?"
No, I was not ready, not even close. "I really want to see your video, but my eyes are sore from watching five hours of football film. Soon," I promised. "Maybe tomorrow."
Luckily, Garry's disappointment didn’t last. "Sure," he said. "The audio's still not fixed anyway."
"What's the problem again?" I inquired, trying to demonstrate motherly interest.
And just like that Garry's whole being focused with the same clarity as the day we toured NFL Films. This was new, this sustained interest in an occupation, so I paid close attention to what he said next.
"See, our camera does audio and video on the same tape, so I can't add any of the extra sounds I got with the recorder I put under the bench."
"The little recorder you asked for? The one that needed batteries?"
"Right. But with the main audio and video already together, I can't mess around with the sound the way Ronnie and the sound guy do."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean they've got seven, eight tracks to play around with, plus the audio's completely separate, you know? So they can do anything they want with it."
My eyes widened. I grabbed Garry's shoulders and kissed him smack on the forehead.
"That's it," I said. "You solved it. At least I think you did."
My son gawked. "What are you talking about, Mom? I didn't solve it. I told you I couldn't solve it. I don't have the equipment they have at NFL Films."
"I'm talking about something else, Gar. The thing I was working on for Ronnie."
"The murder?"
I gulped. "Did Nana tell you I was working on that?"
"No. But you were, weren't you?"
Oh, dear. Honesty? or another compromise? "Partly. Unofficially," I hedged. "I just asked a few questions. You know how I like to ask questions."
"I know." Garry's expression included both irritation and pride.
"I have to go back to NFL Films," I told him, adult to wannabe-adult.
"Why?"
"To listen to the audio of last week's game. I think there's something important on it." Garry beamed. "And yes, what you said gave me the idea."
“What’d I say?”
Chelsea came through the front door. "Hi, sweetie," I greeted her with a kiss and hug. "I really, really missed you; but I've got to go back to New Jersey right away."
"Okay," said with my mother’s nonchalance.
"What'd I say?" Garry asked more loudly than before.
"Exactly the right thing," I assured him.
Running down the hall I called to my mother. "Mom, Mom, I'm going back to Mt. Laurel.”She met me in the family-room doorway, and we grasped hands. "I think I just figured out something important, and I want to see if it pans out. Can you and Gracie stay a little longer?"
"Certainly, dear. We’ll be fine until you get back."
"I don't have a doubt in the world," I said, but just in case, I asked if she had anything planned for dinner.
“Got it covered," Chelsea piped up. Curiouser and curiouser...
I squeezed my mother's hands, kissed her, then loped up the stairs for a reviving shower and quick change of clothes.
Chelsea handed me a bagel and chicken salad sandwich as I threw on my coat.
"Tell Dad I'll call him," I said, certain that she would deliver the message as soon as Rip walked in.
Now all I had to contend with was the five-o'clock traffic between here and New Jersey.
Oh, and a killer who didn't realize that for creative reasons NFL Films always recorded the pictures and the sound separately.
Chapter 27
THICK TRAFFIC OVER the Betsy Ross bridge back to Mt. Laurel gave me an opportunity to sift through what I’d learned about Tim Duffy's death. By the time I parked in the twilight shadows of the NFL Films' lot I had crossed off
several suspects and arrived at a "murderer elect."
Confirmation depended on what–if anything–I heard on the audio tape of the game. So close to the answer, and with so much at stake, my stare probably could have snapped pencils in half or smashed mirrors into shards. I took a couple deep breaths before hammering on the glass front door of NFL Films' office building. Fortunately someone passing by the Emmy wall let me in.
"Geez," he said. "You almost set off the alarm."
"Sorry."
"We had the cops here last night. We don't need 'em back."
"I know, I know. Sorry. Is my cousin, Ronnie Covington, here? Or Dennis, the editor?" I couldn't remember Dennis's last name.
"Yeah, both I think."
"Where? This is urgent."
"If you say so."
Checking several times whether I was keeping up, my escort led me to one of the rooms where the audio was actually mixed.
"Gin!" Ronnie exclaimed. He and another fellow seemed to be putting the final touches on the week's Green Bay/Miami special.
"Hi, Cuz. Get any sleep?" I wondered aloud; I hadn’t really expected him to be here. Dennis, yes. Ron, no.
"Caught a couple hours here," he admitted. "How about you?"
“Not really.”
“So what brings you back?” He looked both hopeful and worried.
I couldn’t contain my excitement. “I think I’m onto something.”
“Yeah?” He grabbed my arm and hustled me into the hall. We were as alone as we were going to get. I spoke just above a whisper anyhow.
"I think the killer actually wanted the audio."
"But..."
"Right. Exactly. The audio is separate, but I don't think the killer knows that."
Ronnie fixed his lively eyes on a spot over my shoulder. "So he went after the original film. He thought he'd be getting both the audio and video outtakes."
"Exactly."
"Let's go." Shrugging off his fatigue, he rushed down the hallway. I followed his bandaged head around corners and up stairs and down another hall to the audio archives.
A Score to Settle Page 16
