A Question of Judgment: A Michael Bishop Mystery

by Anthony J. Pucci

  “What detail?” he asked tentatively.

  “It’s about that note you passed to Nick in Chemistry class a few days before … the big game against Catholic Central.”

  Dave shook his head dismissively. “I didn’t pass him any note.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I mean … I don’t write notes to other kids in class.”

  Bishop paused for a moment as he considered how to approach this without calling him a liar. “Think about this for a minute. There obviously were a lot of people in class that day, and someone told me that you passed a note to Nick. Are you telling me that that person was mistaken?”

  “Who told you that I did it?” The young man was becoming increasing upset. Bishop wondered if that meant that he was onto something.

  “I’m sorry, Dave, but I can’t tell you that.” He got up, went to his desk, unzipped an inner pocket in his briefcase, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I can, however, show you the note.” As if the paper were contaminated, Dave was hesitant to take it.

  “Go ahead. Open it.”

  He took the paper from Bishop, placed it on the desk in front of him, stared at it for a moment without reading its contents, and said softly, “I remember, now.”

  Bishop’s heart rate increased as he made an effort to remain calm. Was Dave Cavanaugh about to explain the meaning of the note? Was there, indeed, a connection between the note sitting on that desk and the death of Nick Borelli?

  “Tell me what you remember.”

  “I didn’t write that note. I don’t know what it says. I just passed it on to Nick.”

  “You mean that someone else wrote it?”

  “I can prove it,” he added as he reached into his backpack on the floor and pulled out a notebook. “Here,” he said, as he flipped open to a random page and pushed it towards Bishop. “This is what my handwriting looks like. I’m sure that it doesn’t match the writing in that note.”

  Bishop reached for the open notebook and glanced at the handwriting. He flipped to some other pages. Everything slanted to the left. The five words that were written on the note displayed a large and loopy style. Sister Pascala seemed certain that Dave had passed the note to Nick. Was it possible that Dave had intentionally disguised his handwriting so that the note would not be traced back to him?

  “Okay,” he said feeling frustrated, “whose handwriting is this? He held up the piece of paper so that Dave could see it.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you said someone gave you the note to pass it on. You’re not going to get anyone in trouble. I just want to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Sam tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to give the note to Nick.”

  “Sam Blanchard?” Sam was also a member of the basketball team. He would have had easy access to the water bottles. He also was the one who lashed out at Derek Yeager when the younger boy had suggested to him that someone on the team might have been responsible for Nick’s death.

  “Are you certain that Sam wrote this?”

  “I don’t know who wrote it,” he responded quickly. “I just know that he gave me the note to pass on. Someone else might have given the note to Sam.”

  “That’s true. That’s very true.” Bishop had assumed all along that Dave had written the note. That assumption now appeared to be false. He thanked Dave for his time and for his cooperation. He asked him not to share their conversation with Sam, and the young man assured him that he would not. As Dave got up to leave, Bishop realized that he had forgotten the obvious … those five words.

  “Before you go, let me ask one more question.”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you know what those words … ‘I know what you did!!’ mean?”

  “I’m sorry. I have no idea.”

  Bishop had convinced himself that Dave had written the note, and that that note had something to do with Nick’s death. He should have known from all of the mystery novels that he had read over the years that the path to uncovering the truth was never a straight line. Now, he had a new angle to pursue. Tomorrow, he would have a little chat with Sam Blanchard. He realized now that it was entirely possible that Sam might not have written the note either, but simply passed it on. But from whom? Would Nick have read it as a threat or as an inside joke? He was struck by another possibility. He wondered if Liz Atkins was in that same Chemistry class.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Just a minute or so after Dave left, Charlie Mitchell showed up. The timing made Bishop suspicious. Had Charlie been standing outside his open door? If so, how much of his conversation with Dave had he heard? He hoped that they had spoken softly enough that anyone in the hall wouldn’t have picked up much. However, he was sure that if he had picked up something, Charlie would be unable to resist the desire to share it with others. He couldn’t accuse the man of eavesdropping, but if it ever got back to him that Charlie had shared anything with anyone, he would find a way to make him regret it.

  “I just have to tell you that I think Art Gleason is a real good egg,” Charlie beamed.

  Bishop wasn’t that interested because he had other things on his mind, but to be polite, he asked, “What makes you say that?”

  “He’s straightened out a lot of problems in that office in just two days, and he promised to reimburse me with his own money for any penalties that I may get for bounced checks. Isn’t that something?”

  “It certainly is,” agreed the department chairman. “I trust that his generous offer will extend to other faculty members who might be in similar circumstances.”

  The joyful look on his face faded. It clearly had never occurred to him to think of anyone other than himself. “I don’t know.” As if to justify his self-centeredness, he added, “What arrangements others might have made with Gleason are none of my business.”

  Bishop wanted to ask him when he started minding his own business, but thought better of it. He hoped that Charlie would change the subject. Even better, he hoped that Charlie would leave.

  Charlie broke the awkward silence by passing along another tidbit from the business manager’s office. “By the way, I saw our old friend, Red Wagner, talking with Ron in the hallway as I came up here.”

  “Really? I ought to go down and say hello.” He grabbed his keys and stood up to leave.

  “Bobby is with him. Cute kid.”

  When he heard that Red’s grandson was downstairs also, he was even more anxious to catch up with them before they left the building.

  “I’m sorry to rush you, Charlie, but I do want to say hello to Red.”

  “No problem. Please tell Red that I am thinking about him. I thought it was a terrible mistake for Mischief and Meany to fire him.”

  Bishop wondered why Charlie had not bothered to talk to Red when he had the chance. More than likely, he had praised Sister Ann for making the right decision. Having managed to usher Charlie out, he pulled the door shut, and raced down the stairs.

  Red and the boy were about to leave the building. “Hey, Red! Wait up!” Red turned around and smiled. He was wearing a pale blue jogging suit. Bobby was in his school uniform, but he had added a New York Mets baseball cap. By the time he caught up with them, he was out of breath.

  “Good to see you, Red. How have you been?” The two men shook hands.

  “Not bad. Not bad. How about yourself?”

  “Can’t complain,” Bishop responded. He reached out to shake Bobby’s hand. “I really like that hat.”

  “Are you a Mets’ fan?” he asked as his face brightened.

  “For a lot more years than I care to remember,” he said jokingly. “Where are you guys headed?”

  “Bobby has a game, but he doesn’t need to be there until 5:30 p.m.”

  “Wanna come and watch me play?” Bobby asked enthusiastically.

  “I wish I could, but I’ve got a set of essays that I have to get graded. Another time, for sure.”

  “Okay,” he replied. It was obvious that he was
a bit disappointed.

  “Listen, there is something you can do for me.” They were still standing in the hallway, and Bishop was aware that anyone passing by might hear their conversation. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

  They all headed in the direction of Red’s truck with Bobby running ahead. Bishop told Red that Lieutenant Hodge had mentioned that Bobby was the one who had filled the water bottles the night of the Catholic Central game. He asked the coach if it would be all right to ask Bobby one or two questions.

  Red stopped walking. He spoke softly so that Bobby wouldn’t hear him. “He’s just a kid. He didn’t have anything to do with Nick’s death.”

  “I know that, believe me, but he might have seen something or heard something that could help us solve this case.”

  Bobby had already jumped into the passenger seat of the truck. Red thought about it for a moment before he spoke. “I guess it will be okay.”

  As Red got behind the wheel, Bobby lowered the window all the way down. Bishop leaned in and rested his arms on the door.

  “Bobby, is it okay if I ask you a couple of questions about the night that Nick died?”

  The young boy was caught off guard. He looked to his grandfather who gave him an approving wink. “I guess so,” he said tentatively.

  “I was just curious to know if you saw or heard anything unusual that night when you were getting the team’s water bottles ready?”

  “Nope. Nothing I can think of,” he replied.

  Bishop tried to phrase the question in a different way. “Well, it was such a big game, were there some people in the locker room that you didn’t know?”

  “No. It’s pretty much the same people in there before every game, but the water bottles were already filled anyways.”

  “What do you mean? I thought that was your job.”

  “It is,” he said proudly. “But there was a pep assembly that afternoon, and I asked my mom if I could go, so Papa got me out of school a little early. I filled the bottles then.”

  It was a possibility that Bishop had never even considered. The water bottles had been filled about four hours earlier than he had assumed. Whoever killed Nick Borelli had possibly tampered with his drink during the pep assembly.

  “Are you sure about that, Bobby?”

  “Yup, I’m sure.”

  “Was anyone else in the room at that time?”

  “Nope. When I finished, I went out to watch the players get introduced.”

  “Did you lock the door when you left?”

  Red answered for his grandson. “We never lock that door in case one of the players needs to get back in there.”

  “Of course. I understand. Well, Bobby, thanks for answering all of my questions. Good luck in your game.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Noc-A-Homa.”

  “Excuse me?” said Bobby with a puzzled expression on his face.

  Red laughed as he explained. “Years ago, whenever a Milwaukee Braves player hit one out of the park, the team’s mascot, Chief Noc-A-Homa came out of his teepee and did a dance.”

  “Oh,” the boy said as he tried to figure out why his Papa thought that the Braves played in Milwaukee when everyone knew they played in Atlanta.

  As they drove off, Bishop went back in the building to gather his belongings and head home. Perhaps that little bit of information that he had picked up from Bobby was totally inconsequential. On the other hand, it might be the detail that leads to the identity of the killer. Only time would tell.

  ***

  His attempt to leave the building was not without incident. Rounding the corner at the bottom of the stairs was always somewhat of an adventure since one couldn’t see who might be coming from the other direction. “Excuse me!” he said as he abruptly avoiding crashing into Sister Pat.

  “You need to watch where you’re going, Bishop,” she snapped. Considering the fact that she outweighed him by more than a hundred pounds, he was sure that had he actually bumped into her, he would have bounced backwards and hit the floor. Enduring her rudeness was the lesser of two evils.

  She took the opportunity to taunt him about the pace of the investigation into Nick’s murder. “Apparently, you and those cops haven’t made any progress in finding out what happened to Borelli.”

  Annoyed at her reminder of his failure to date, he replied calmly, “Well, Sister, if you have any ideas that would be helpful, I’d love to hear them.”

  “Me? I don’t know anything about it,” she smirked.

  Had she not added the last two words of her sentence, Bishop thought that the rest of the statement summarized her perfectly. He smiled innocently.

  “What are you smiling about? We want that mess cleared up fast because it might affect enrollment for next year.”

  Her motivation amazed him. He wanted to bring a killer to justice. He wanted to bring resolution to a grieving mother. He wanted know why anyone would have wanted Nick dead. She wanted to make sure that the publicity didn’t affect the school’s bottom line.

  Knowing that Sister Pat was befuddled by his use of Latin phrases, he said, “I believe in that expression, festine lente.” She gave him a quizzical look as he made his way to the exit.

  He heard her mutter to herself, “What does Lent have to do with anything?” as he left the building. As far as he was concerned, those words captured his investigative approach perfectly. Make haste slowly.

  ***

  Arriving at his house on the hill, he felt energized. He changed quickly, and took Max out for a long walk around the yard, Bishop stopping to admire the blossoming flowers in each garden, and Max stopping to sniff at every opportunity. It was such a glorious spring afternoon that he decided to give the expansive field its first mowing of the season.

  He often told his wife that he did his best thinking either in the shower or on his lawn tractor. He recalled that a few years back, a frustrated and worried student told him that she was having difficulty in coming up with a theme for her valedictory address. They chatted for a while, and he expressed confidence in her natural abilities. He suggested that sometimes thinking about something too hard could be counterproductive. He advised her “to go home and mow the lawn.” Sure enough, the next day, she came in to tell him that she had come up with a great idea, and indeed, it was.

  Perhaps that explained what Sister Pat had described as his lack of “progress” in solving the murder of Nick Borelli. Maybe he had been trying too hard. An hour of mindless, methodical mowing back and forth might prove beneficial.

  There was no epiphany that afternoon. As he inhaled the aroma of the freshly cut grass, the only idea that had come to mind was the perfect rejoinder to Sister Pat’s concern that the lack of progress in the murder investigation might cause a drop in enrollment. He should have reminded her that her refusal to apologize to the Fitzgerald family for her unjustified treatment of Chris was more likely to lead to a drop in enrollment. Making an enemy of the mayor was never a smart idea. However, he was glad that he hadn’t thought of that at the time. She would have exploded, and it really wasn’t worth it. He knew from experience that he had to pick his battles carefully.

  ***

  He planned on checking in with Lieutenant Hodge after grading a set of essays from his A.P. class. They would be taking their national exam in early May, and he wanted to use these last few weeks to challenge them with questions similar to those they might face on the exam.

  With Igor Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring playing in the background, he settled in to the task. Most of his students had performed quite admirably. The few who had not would probably learn more from the assignment than those who had done well. Just as he was about to pick up the last essay in the stack, his cell phone rang. It was Hodge.

  “Are you busy?”

  “Just finishing a set of essays. I was going to give you a call,” he answered truthfully. Even if he were busy, he would have taken the call. Hodge wouldn’t have called just to chat. “What’s up?”

&
nbsp; “I received a call from Victor Borelli today.”

  Hodge had a habit of delivering news in small pieces. Bishop nudged him along.

  “I don’t suppose he confessed,” he replied with a chuckle.

  Hodge laughed as well. “No, nothing like that.”

  “What did he have to say for himself?”

  “You remember that he didn’t have an alibi for his whereabouts at the time of Nick’s murder.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it seems that he was helping a client with a problem, and he came across a document that he had faxed to a claims representative with the date and time recorded. It indicates that he was in his office at about the exact time that the game began here in Groveland.”

  “Isn’t it possible that he arranged for someone else to do that for him?”

  “I like the way you think, Mr. Bishop,” he answered with a laugh. “That is possible, but rather unlikely. Instead of providing himself an alibi, such an action would have raised more questions as to why he couldn’t send the fax himself and why it had to be sent at a certain time.”

  Bishop pounced on the reference to time. “Even if he did send that fax at the time he indicated, I’ve learned that the water bottles for the team had been readied hours earlier. Victor would have had time to tamper with Nick’s drink and get back to Freemont to send that fax.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “You asked me to ask Bobby a few questions once you realized that he was the one who actually took care of the drinks. Just by happenstance, I bumped into Red and Bobby at school this afternoon. Bobby’s mother had given him permission to attend a pep rally that was held earlier that afternoon.”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re saying that whoever tampered with that bottle might not even have been in the building at the time of the game.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Lieutenant.”

  “Well, well,” he replied as he considered the impact of this new information. “I guess that Victor Borelli’s name goes back on the list of suspects.”

  In Bishop’s mind, Victor was high on the list even though the very thought of a father killing his own son was so repulsive. He had threatened his wife when she left him, and he had a history of erratic behavior. He also knew from his study of literature and from countless news stories that the most heinous crimes were often committed by a member of the victim’s own family.