by Mike Befeler
“No. It’s clear you remained fenced into the other court when the murder happened.”
Mark recounted arriving and observing the men on the other court, playing for a short while, being surprised when the lights went out and then receiving the shock of seeing a bludgeoned Manny Grimes when the lights came back on.
“Describe specifically what you noticed the men doing on the adjoining court right before the lights went out.”
“They had all gathered at the net. The fifth man, whom I don’t know, had just arrived. We stopped our game when he stomped onto the court and started an argument with one of the players, Lee Daggett.”
“Did you know the victim?”
“I’ve known Manny for over two years. He often filled in when one of our regular foursome couldn’t play.”
“And the other men on the court with Manny?”
Mark thought back over the last several years of platform tennis games. “Manny is the only one I’ve played platform tennis with. I’ve seen the others at the courts once in a while, but that’s it.”
“Let’s review the situation before the lights went out. Continue.”
“The players on the other court acted pretty heated. They swore at each other. But, strangely, Manny seemed above it all. The other three argued like spoiled kids.”
“Describe any threats you heard.”
“Nothing specific, but they constantly badgered each other as they played.”
“What else did you notice?”
“The man who came late. His timing was impeccable. Moments after he arrived, the lights went out.”
Peters wrote on his notepad.
“Can you describe the positions of the men on the other court when the lights came back on?”
“I really didn’t notice them. My attention was only focused on Manny. I saw a paddle lying next to him. Then I picked up my cell phone.”
“Anything else you observed?”
Mark thought for a moment. “Nothing else.”
“I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Yeager. If you think of something that might be useful, please give me a call.”
Peters gave Mark his card.
Mark looked at the blank wall in front of him and thought of the crime shows he’d watched on television. “I have some questions for you. Wouldn’t there be blood spatter from the victim on the killer? Since the suspects were probably wearing gloves, I don’t imagine you found fingerprints on the murder weapon, but did you discover anything suspicious in their equipment bags?”
Peters looked thoughtfully at Mark. “Astute questions, but I can’t discuss the investigation at this time.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t divulge any case details.”
As Mark left the room, he noticed one of the suspects, Ken Idler, standing in the hallway, dressed in tennis shorts and a turtleneck shirt. His build approximated Manny’s, but his face held dark, darting eyes, a brown mustache and a goatee.
“Look, you’ve asked your questions and you know where to find me if you need me again,” Idler said. “I was bending down to tie my tennis shoe when the lights went out. One of the others killed Manny. Now I need to return home to my wife.”
“We need to run one more test, Mr. Idler,” the policeman said.
“You’ve already taken my sweat suit. I assume you’ll give me something warm to wear home.”
“We have a jacket we’ll loan you when you’re driven back to the recreation center.”
“How good of you,” Idler said, turning and kicking the base plate of the wall.
CHAPTER 3
When Mark entered his house at eleven-thirty, he found Sophie in the living room. She lowered a legal thriller held in her soft, white hands and gave him a smile. Their eyes met in the way that comes from thirty years of marriage.
Mark admired her short, blond hair and well-conditioned body, the result of yoga and walking. Who would guess that she would turn fifty-two in three months? He hoped that one of these days the aftereffect from his cancer surgery would wear off and he would once again be able to enjoy the pleasures of intimacy with Sophie.
“Quite a late game tonight,” she said.
“We hardly played at all. There was a murder on the courts.”
“What?” Her eyes widened, and she dropped her book.
“You remember Manny Grimes?”
“Yes.”
“Someone bludgeoned him to death with a paddle on the next court.”
She put her hand to her cheek. “How awful. You must be in a state of shock.”
“I was shaken by it, but I’m okay now.”
“Manny’s poor wife. Do the police know who killed him?”
“Not yet. They have four suspects.”
“Tell me the whole story.”
Mark recounted the events, exactly as he had related them to Detective Peters.
“I hope the police do a better job than with the Jon Benet Ramsey murder,” Sophie said.
“The police interviewed the four suspects. Any of them could have done it. They all stood near the body when the lights came on.”
“Do you know any of them?”
Mark suddenly remembered an event he should have mentioned to Detective Peters. “I know three of their names and had a run-in with one of them, Jacob Fish, a year ago.”
He thought back to last fall when Jacob insisted that he had rights to the north court when, in fact, Mark had reserved it. The reservation had been confirmed by the perky blonde at the desk. Jacob had only relinquished the court after they had all trooped inside to examine the reservation schedule.
“This dumb broad obviously made a mistake!” Jacob had shouted, mustache twitching and bald head flushing.
“No,” Mark had replied, clenching his teeth. “She’s right and you’re wrong.”
The taller and younger Jacob had made a fist as if he would punch Mark in the nose right on the spot.
Mark snapped back from his reminiscence when Sophie asked, “And the other suspects?”
“Ken Idler. He’s a local businessman. I’ve seen him on the courts several times. He’s another ‘winner.’ Threw a tantrum at police headquarters tonight.”
“Not the passive type.”
“No. None of them are shy or retiring. They spent most of the evening arguing. And Lee Daggett. He’s another sweetheart. Poster child for verbal abuse.”
“But I don’t understand—you said four suspects.”
“That’s the strange part. Seconds before the lights went out, another man arrived. I’ve never seen him before. He and Lee Daggett argued over who was supposed to be playing.”
“Why would one of them have it in for Manny?”
Mark scratched his head. “I can’t figure that out. These other guys all shouted at each other, but Manny seemed to stay out of the fray. He and I made eye contact during one of the arguments on their court. I still can’t understand why he associated with those jerks. Manny is such a nice guy.”
Sophie leveled her gaze at Mark. “I know you liked Manny, but I’ve never shared your enthusiasm for him.”
Mark blinked. “Why not?”
“It goes back to a party several years ago. One of the guys you used to play platform tennis with had a group of your buddies and their wives over. Now, I like your regular group and have always enjoyed Ben and Woody and get a kick out of the scatterbrained professor, Shelby, but something about Manny didn’t strike me right.”
“I’ve never had any problems with him, and he did me a big favor once.”
“Yes, I know your feelings, but Manny didn’t seem genuine.” She sighed. “To be blunt, he struck me as a phony.”
Mark laughed. “Well, he’s always been genuine with me. Maybe he had a hidden life.”
“That just might be, Mark.”
“In any case, he certainly didn’t deserve being murdered with a paddle.”
“I agree, and there may be some additional fallout from the murder,” Sophie said.
> Mark knew his wife had keen insights into events, often giving him a perspective he might have otherwise missed. “How so?”
“You’ve been telling me there’s a snafu with the expansion of the recreation center, resulting in a hearing on Monday to relocate the courts.”
“Yes.”
“Well. You’re fighting this issue—the people living near the courts consider them a disruption to their quiet neighborhood. They dislike the lights and noise from the courts. In their place, I’d play up this murder. This loud, obnoxious sport brings the wrong element into our neighborhood. Down with murderous platform tennis players and their despicable sport. Protect our children from this threat. Bulldoze the courts.”
Mark had to laugh in spite of himself. “You’d make a great lawyer. I’m glad you’re on my side.”
“Am I? Maybe without the courts you wouldn’t be associating with murderers until almost midnight.”
“Then you’d be stuck with me around here more.”
She smiled. “I know you. You’d jump full speed into some other project. You’ll never be one to sit at home. It may frustrate me at times, but it’s also what I love about you.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Sophie stood and strolled over to Mark, wrapping her arms around his neck.
He put his hand under her chin and gave her a kiss. There was a time when this would have aroused him, but ever since his prostate-cancer surgery . . .
He released her and stepped away. “I better go take a shower.”
Two days later, with Manny’s murder on his mind, Mark sat in silence at Vic’s coffee house with Ben Quentin and Woody Thorp after their midday game. He surveyed the white wall covered with pictures of a smiling Buddha surrounded by naked women. Heating pipes ran along the ceiling and intersected a curved arch of galvanized steel that separated the customers from the kitchen. A bearded, young man in a white T-shirt stood behind the coffee bar, wiping the counter with a dishcloth. The room emitted staccato bursts of background conversation, coffee grinding, a baby crying, cups striking saucers and laughter.
Ben Quentin, the youngest of their group at forty-eight, shook his full head of brown hair. He rubbed his chin covered with its ever-present five o’clock shadow and stared blankly through his small, oval glasses. “I keep replaying what I saw. It reminds me of when my wife died three years ago.” He gazed sadly at the far wall.
Woody Thorp adjusted his gold-rim glasses and wiped his high forehead. “I know what you mean. It’s been hard for me, too. It brings up the awful memories of my son dying in that car wreck.”
Ben turned to face his two friends. “We’re all survivors, recovering from bad situations,” he said firmly. “Trying to return to normal, staying active. Then some asshole kills our friend.” He slapped the table for emphasis.
“I’ve never heard anything good about anyone in that group,” Woody said. “I’m sure they’re all capable of murder.”
“But no arrest yet,” Ben added, taking a sip of his cappuccino. “The article in the Daily Camera only referred to a police investigation underway.”
“And, of all people, the victim is the guy who substituted for Mark while he recovered from his cancer surgery,” Woody said. “We’ve all enjoyed a good game with Manny. Always genial and helpful. Gave me a ride home one time when I had a flat tire.”
“Offered to provide a new ball each time we played, not like some people,” Ben said, elbowing Mark. “The consummate gentleman. Played a good solid game. Never tried to drill people. Always made effective passing shots.”
“Now someone bludgeons him with a paddle,” Woody said, wincing. “And we all saw it happen. I mean, we were there when it happened. I can’t clear that scene from my mind.”
“Oh, like we can?” Ben asked.
Ignoring his sarcasm, Woody continued. “I’ve never witnessed anything like that before. I keep seeing it like a reoccurring movie scene. That group in the enclosed court—”
“And I remember the closed door,” Ben interrupted. “When the fifth guy, Howard Roscoe, came stomping up the stairs, he slammed it shut after he entered the court.”
“So that’s the latecomer,” Mark said. “I’ve seen him before, but didn’t know his name.”
Shelby Prescott slid onto a chair.
Ben looked at Shelby. “Speaking of latecomers, we’ve been here for fifteen minutes. How come you’re even late making a five-minute drive from the courts?”
“I had to retrieve this book out of my trunk for Woody,” Shelby said, plopping a hefty reference book onto the table.
“You’re setting a bad tome with such a large book,” Woody said with a straight face.
Mark and Shelby groaned.
“Don’t encourage him,” Ben said, glaring at them. “Woody loves to have people groan at his bad puns. You have to ignore him.”
Woody smiled in acknowledgement. “Now, as I was saying before Shelby’s once-again late arrival, five of them stood on the enclosed court. And the lights go out for, what do you think, fifteen seconds?”
“I would state twenty seconds,” Shelby confirmed in his most professorial tone.
“Okay, say twenty seconds,” Woody continued. “We look over and see Manny dead and a bloody paddle lying on the court. Four, and only four, suspects. No time for anyone else to come into the court, kill Manny and leave.”
“Well summarized,” Ben said. “A good engineer’s analysis. The conclusion: no outside intruder.”
“Maybe the squirrel did it,” Shelby said.
“Huh?” Woody opened his eyes wide.
“You remember,” Shelby said, waving his hand at Woody. “Must have been last year. While the four of us played, a squirrel climbed the fence, scurried down the inside, ran across the court, scampered back up and sat there chattering at us.”
“We can rule out the squirrel,” Ben said, swatting Shelby with a newspaper that had been lying on the table. “We have to find the motive. One of those guys had a good reason to eliminate Manny. The police need to uncover who wanted to rub out Manny.”
“Maybe they all planned it,” Shelby said.
“It’s possible,” Ben said, as he scratched the back of his hand. “Maybe it was a mob execution.”
“Come on, Ben,” Mark said. “This isn’t Chicago. Mob hits don’t happen in Boulder.”
“Oh, yeah?” Ben’s eyes flashed. “Remember that Asian gang that raped that C.U. coed? Wake up. We have gangs, thieves and murderers here. They may be disguised in designer jeans and jogging suits, but there’s no lack of criminals in this community.”
“Ben should know,” Woody jumped in. “He has the opportunity to represent some of them.”
“I stick to the minor violations, but we could give Washington, D.C., a run for it with the number of crimes per capita committed here.”
“And to think that I moved here for the peace and quiet,” Woody said with a sigh.
“Boulder appears to be this safe, upper-middle-class, professional community, but it has a serious drug trade and more than its fair share of crime,” Ben continued.
“Must be what’s in that good glacier water the Chamber of Commerce always promotes,” Shelby said. “In any case, I think those guys worked together.”
“I could see the four of them plotting the murder,” Woody said.
“But all considered, I don’t think that’s what happened,” Ben said. “They seemed pretty argumentative when the police arrived. The four suspects kept blaming each other. No cooperation among that crowd.”
“I think they play platform tennis because on the small court they can drive the ball into someone’s stomach,” Woody added. “They like taking their frustrations out by damaging their opponents.”
“There must have been some evidence at the scene of the crime,” Shelby said.
“The crime scene investigators collected blood spatter,” Ben said. “But the suspects were bunched so close together that they all had evidence of
blood on their clothes. Probably nothing conclusive.”
Mark listened, squirming in his seat and tapping his fingers on his thighs. If he could only find a way to mobilize his friends.
“I hope the police solve the case quickly,” Shelby said.
“Not much chance of that,” Ben said. “I called a friend in the DA’s office this morning, and the police still have no clue which of the four did it.”
“Manny’s owed justice,” Mark said, pounding his fist on the yellow, circular table and jolting his companions. “His murderer shouldn’t be roaming free. We need to do something.”
“What do you have in mind?” Woody asked.
“We have connections in this community,” Mark said. “We could do our own investigation and speed things up.”
“I thought you needed to take it easy after your surgery,” Shelby said as he pointed a finger at Mark.
“If I’ve recovered enough to play platform tennis, I can tackle an investigation. We need to pool our resources to try to help. It seems to me that if we each took one of the four suspects and did our own background check, we might be able to find out who the murderer is.”
“And use Vic’s as our headquarters?” Shelby asked.
“Why not? We can meet here before our Tuesday evening games and after our Thursday noon and Saturday morning games. Woody, use your engineer’s mind to work at solving this problem. Ben maintains excellent connections with the local police. Shelby can probably marshal a group of students to help him. I have contacts in the business community to follow up with. What do you say?”
“I’m in,” Woody answered.
Shelby thought for a moment. “Okay, but I can’t put too much time into this.”
“The police don’t appreciate amateur detectives messing with their investigations,” Ben said. “What makes you think we can do more than they can?”
Mark paused as the aroma of mint tea wafted from the next table. “I’m not saying we’re better than the police. We just might have some different perspectives and take some new approaches to the problem.”
Woody nodded. “I agree. If we reach a dead end, it will only cost us the time invested. If we discover something, it might speed up bringing the perpetrator to justice.”
