Inside Cut

by Tom Fowler

  “I understand it’s an old idea,” I said. “Think about it, though. What brought these schemes down before was people placing bets in person. Wiseguys got recognized. Not the case anymore. No one has to walk into a seedy backroom somewhere.”

  “Because it’s all online,” Gonzalez said. If any more skepticism dripped from his words, he’d need to wipe the table.

  “Exactly. There are a ton of offshore casinos making lines and taking bets. You just need someone local to manage the scheme.”

  “No, you need someone local to manage it. I don’t need anything . . . except dinner. Where the hell is the waiter?”

  “You’re dismissing my idea.”

  “Yeah. Happens to me all the time.”

  “Maybe my ideas are better than yours,” I said. “Remember, I can only improve your reputation.”

  “Whatever.” Before Gonzalez could say anything else, the server brought his burger and fries. Gonzalez ordered another beer, and I opted for an unsweetened iced tea. Once we each held our second round of drinks, he continued. “Look, if this turns into anything, let me know.”

  “Why should I? You laugh when I tell you my theory, but if it turns out I’m right, then you want to be involved?”

  He nodded around a bite of his cheeseburger. “Pretty much.”

  “Is having your cake and eating it, too, part of the police handbook?” I said.

  “It’s in the appendix.” I took out my money clip, peeled a twenty and a ten off, and dropped them on the table. “Ain’t enough to cover it.”

  “Read the appendix again,” I said as I stood. “I’m sure there’s something in there about accepting meals from people like me.”

  When I got home, I slammed the back door louder than usual. Gloria walked into the kitchen from the living room frowning at me. I spiked my keys into their usual wooden bowl. “Bad day at the office?” she said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  “An annoying chat with Gonzalez,” I said. I filled her in on the details as we walked back to the front of the house and plopped down onto the couch.

  “I thought the police were supposed to be receptive to ideas,” she said.

  “Once they have an investigation going, yeah. Before then, I guess they can afford to be selective.”

  “You’re going to stick with your theory?”

  I nodded. “Until a better one emerges.”

  “What’s your next move, then?” asked Gloria.

  I appreciated the growing interest she took in my cases over time. Initially, talk of work repulsed her. Gloria didn’t need to work a day in her life, and when we first met, I think she’d committed herself to it. Before long, she saw people helped by my investigations and began looking for her own meaningful work, eventually landing in the fundraising arena. She also served as a useful sounding board for my ideas, some of which were admittedly hare-brained.

  This one, however, was not. I knew it had merit. I only needed to prove it. How could I figure out if someone sank his (or her) hooks in Calvin Murray? His mother was concerned. I wondered how the young man himself dealt with everything. An idea formed in my head. There was an easy way to find out. “I think I’m going to go back to college,” I said.

  Chapter 5

  Social media is a wonderful thing, especially to people like me. I could’ve broken into John Hanson College’s records and obtained Calvin Murray’s schedule. The odds of getting caught were minimal, and the only real expense would be time. However, Calvin posted a photo of the current semester’s schedule to his Instagram account back in January. The hashtags he chose suggested he was not a fan of the early start.

  Neither was I, but I arose at the dreadful hour of seven, left a sleeping Gloria in bed, and snuck downstairs for coffee and breakfast. With my caffeine and food levels acceptable for the morning, I padded back up and got dressed. Gloria remained in dreamland. She’d rolled onto her other side since I went downstairs, and one of her shapely legs stuck out from under the blanket. I took a deep breath to steel my resolve and left the house.

  Calvin Murray’s first class began at eight. This presumed he went, of course. The athlete who doesn’t go to class is something of a stereotype, but it’s one I witnessed firsthand during my time at Loyola. If Calvin didn’t make his appointed rounds, I’d be left with trying to find him on a college campus. It could be done, but I’d be relieved if I found him in the lecture hall.

  After parking and traipsing from the lot, I hit the building at eight-ten. Calvin’s chemistry lecture would’ve already started. The good thing about a large class like this would be the anonymity of sitting in a large room. Walking in late would draw eyes to me, and a few people would wonder who I was. But in a room with two hundred students crammed in, being one of the crowd would prevail.

  I opened the door and, sure enough, more than a hundred heads pivoted to the noise. The professor, a middle-aged man who spoke with an Italian accent, paused as I found a seat in the last row. I chose the center so I could survey the hall. The professor resumed, and my intrusion was forgotten. No one challenged me. To play the part of a college student, I brought a spiral notebook and a pen.

  A few years passed since I studied chemistry. Probably about eleven, a thought which made me feel older than my thirty years. Based on what I saw in the PowerPoint, this was the 101 course. I tuned out the instructor and scanned the rows of students in front of me. While I knew what Calvin looked like, all the pictures I saw were obviously from the front.

  He was tall, though—the college listed him as six-seven. Unless he slouched very low, he’d be among the highest head-and-shoulders in the hall even while seated. My scan yielded a couple possible hits. Both were to my left and near the front. I couldn’t tell which (if either) was Calvin from where I sat, however. This meant enduring the rest of the chemistry lecture.

  The things I did for this job.

  At eight-fifty, it mercifully ended. Everyone rose and filed out at the nearest exit. I bucked the tide leaving at the top, instead scooting down the steps. My two prospects turned the corner, allowing me to see them. One was Calvin Murray. His next class was in a much smaller setting. I couldn’t just slip in the back and pass it off. I needed to get closer.

  A flock of other students were in my way as we all exited the building. If I knew the campus layout—and my grip on it was tenuous—we’d have about a five-minute walk to our next destination. Once outside, I used the ample free space to bypass the stragglers and slow walkers. I fell in a couple paces behind Calvin, whose longer strides forced me to walk quickly. Many of his fellow students wished him good luck or offered high-fives as he passed. To his credit, the young man obliged them all.

  I dug my phone out of my front pocket and launched a Bluetooth attack on Calvin’s. It connected immediately, quickly cracked the feeble security protocols, and began cloning his phone. It would need about three minutes to complete. I followed Calvin as he walked to his next class.

  Two and a half minutes.

  Because of Bluetooth’s limited range, I would need to remain within ten meters of my tall quarry until the cloning completed. At his current pace, he’d be in Statistics by then. After a few more high-fives, Calvin walked up the steps to another generic brick structure. He went in the front door, and I followed him. His long strides devoured the stairs two at a time. We emerged on the second floor.

  Seventy seconds remained.

  Calvin paused for a drink from a water fountain, so I busied myself looking at my phone. A few seconds later, he was off again. We passed room 219 before he ducked into 221. I followed him because I had to. A few quizzical looks greeted me. Calvin walked to the left side and sat in the middle row of desks. I grabbed one nearby and opened my notebook.

  We were under half a minute.

  “Are you supposed to be here?”

  I looked up. The professor, who’d been staring at her notes when we entered, now stared at me. “Me?” I said, even though it was obvious I was the target of her question.


  “Of course, you. This is Statistics One. Are you in the wrong class?”

  “Two-nineteen, right?”

  She shook her head. “Two-twenty-one.”

  I offered my best sheepish grin. “Sorry. I guess I’ll need another cup of coffee after class.” A tight smile served as the only response. I flipped my notebook shut and stood. My pen clattered on the floor. I crouched and picked it up, offering an additional sheepish grin for this latest intrusion on the placidity of Statistics I. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I walked around my desk and out of the classroom.

  Once I was back in the corridor, I checked my phone.

  The clone completed.

  Having gotten the boot from Statistics, I plotted my next move. My Bluetooth program cloned Calvin’s phone and SIM card, and I’d brought a spare so I could use a separate device to see what he did. I pondered going home. No pressing need jumped out at me. On my way back to my car, however, I saw a sign directing me to the athletic department offices.

  It was too good to pass up.

  I walked into the building and found the basketball coaches’ rooms. Lou Baker, the head coach, sat behind his desk. His glasses perched on his balding head, and he frowned at a set of papers. A TV of about forty inches was mounted on the wall behind him, and a still image from paused game footage lingered on the screen. I knocked on the door.

  He looked up. “Who the hell are you?”

  “My name is C.T. Ferguson, and I’m a private investigator.” I showed him my badge and ID, which he scrutinized through squinted eyes.

  “Don’t know what you’re doing here.”

  Despite not being offered a seat, I plopped down in a chair before Baker’s desk. He pursed his lips but didn’t say anything. “Have you seen any shady characters around your players?”

  “Do you count?” he said.

  “Much shadier than I am. Think wiseguys and gamblers.”

  He shook his head, and his jowls wobbled faster than the rest of his face. “None of that shit around here.” The coach glanced back to his papers. “We done? I got a game tomorrow to plan for.”

  “I have reason to believe at least one of your players is in league with someone who’s . . . interested in the outcomes of games.”

  “Lot of people are interested in how the games turn out.”

  “Financially.”

  Baker paused. “You mean shaving points?”

  “It’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Doesn’t happen anymore.” He shook his head. “I been in this game a long time. I got started as an assistant coach in the ‘eighties. The big programs always had some mob guy sniffing around. It’s an artifact of the times, though. You don’t see it anymore.”

  “I think you still could. Local bookies and online casinos make it easier than it was back then.”

  A quiet stare was the only answer I got. Baker looked between his papers and me. “What makes you think one of my players is involved?”

  “I can’t tell you exactly, but a concerned and reliable person hired me.”

  Baker waved his hand. “You got suckered.” He stood, and his desk groaned in protest as he leaned on it. “Lots of people don’t like it when others are successful. I run a good program. Have a couple great players. Some folks out there don’t like it, and they’ll come to people like you to try and tear it down.”

  This should be good. “People like me?”

  “You’re probably not so different.” He studied me for a moment while I remained silent. “You look like you’re in shape. Probably helps in your line of work. No one who’s successful does what you do, though. So you attract other failures, and sometimes, your clients point you at someone like me. Someone who’s built a nationally-recognized program.”

  I took a deep breath and avoided the bait. For now. “Then there’s no harm in giving me some copies of your game films. If everything is on the up-and-up, there won’t be anything for me to find.”

  Baker crossed his arms. “No way,” he said. “I’m not legitimizing this witch hunt.”

  “Have it your way,” I said. “But if I find something, I’ll come back, and you probably won’t like the conversation.”

  “I didn’t much like this one.” He sat again, his office chair creaking under the load. “I don’t expect I’ll be seeing you again.”

  This wouldn’t go any further. Baker dug in his heels and wasn’t going to give me an inch. I got up and turned toward the door. “Oh, Coach?”

  “What?”

  “Two thousand twelve, Loyola College, national lacrosse champions. Look me up.”

  Baker stared at me with a slack jaw. A few seconds later, he said, “I didn’t . . . most people—”

  “Go fuck yourself,” I broke in.

  I left the office.

  At home, I loaded the cloned image of Calvin Murray’s phone and SIM card onto a spare Android model. This would allow me to review his texts and calls, plus see his communications in real time. If he shaved points, I would know about it, and the hope was this would also snag whoever masterminded the scheme.

  Gloria walked into my home office—sparser now with the real one up and running—and sat in a guest chair. “New phone? It looks kind of old.”

  “It’s new to me, you could say. I cloned it.” I gave her a brief technical rundown on duplicating someone’s device. To her credit, Gloria nodded at the important parts, but I knew she didn’t understand most of it.

  “Is that legal?” she asked.

  “Doubt it.” I shrugged. “I’ve built my career, such as it is, on being a scofflaw. Why start doing things the right way now?”

  “What if this Calvin finds out?”

  “He won’t.”

  “You think this’ll catch anyone?”

  “It’s my hope,” I said. “Once it does, I’ll destroy the clone.” Gloria watched me as I scrolled through the phone. I got the feeling she wanted to tell me something. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  I didn’t buy it, but I also didn’t press it. “Just like watching me work?”

  Gloria smiled, and her chestnut hair slid across her shoulder as she stared at me. “Sometimes more than others.”

  It was almost enough to make me leap across the desk between us. JHC had a game coming up, however, and both Calvin Murray’s infant daughter and sick mother could be in the crosshairs if things went badly. “Give me a couple minutes,” I said.

  “Don’t keep me waiting,” Gloria said. She sashayed out of the room, and I watched her walk all the way to the stairs. It took me a minute to breathe normally and get back to work. I flipped through Calvin’s emails. Nothing jumped out. His texts were similarly mundane.

  Most people didn’t communicate in these ways anymore, however, especially if they wanted discretion. Much of this was now the purview of messaging apps, and Calvin’s phone featured the top choices in the category. He even kept them in their own folder and sorted alphabetically. I hoped nothing bad happened to this kid. Anyone who alphabetized smartphone apps was a winner in my book.

  I needed to make it to WhatsApp to see something of interest. A contact identified only as Eddie sent a message to Calvin earlier today. The line for the game is now 9.5. You’ve already been taken care of. I know you know what to do.

  Already been taken care of? I wondered if this meant someone footing the bill for Denise Murray’s cancer treatment and recovery. Those things weren’t cheap, and if Calvin’s means of payback meant shaving points in games, some serious money needed to be on the line.

  Calvin answered a few minutes later. We got you.

  Who else was involved? Another rabbit hole opened the more I looked around this case. I needed to talk to Calvin and maybe a few of his teammates. The coach wasn’t going to cooperate, though. I’d have to pursue something unofficial.

  The parties whose necks were potentially in the noose now consisted of Calvin, Denise, Calvin’s baby, and at least one teammate. I wondered
how much worse this case could get before it took a turn for the better.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning, I started my day by running laps around Federal Hill Park. It always afforded a great view of the city, and I loved looking out over the harbor as I pounded the pavement. I wore a light Under Armour jacket this morning. A couple about my age walked their small, yappy dog, but I didn’t see anyone else out exercising. Many mornings, attractive women in exercise attire also ran laps. Today, I was alone.

  I sprinted back home, showered, threw on jeans and a sweater, and explored my breakfast options. The status of my refrigerator and pantry is often lamentable, but I’d been to the grocery store recently. I settled on some ingredients and whipped up a scramble of potatoes, diced peppers, and eggs. The smells of this and a brewing pot of coffee summoned Gloria downstairs. She was predictable in this way. “What trouble are you getting into today?” she said as we ate a few minutes later.

  “I think I’ll go back to campus,” I said. “Hanson’s game is tonight. I want to see if anyone disreputable is skulking about.”

  “Skulking?” Gloria said with a grin.

  “It’s a favorite pastime of the disreputable.”

  “You would know.”

  I raised my coffee mug in a mock toast. “I can skulk with the best of them.”

  After breakfast, Gloria kissed me goodbye and advised me to stay out of trouble. I told her I would do my best, which was true but would likely come up short, which was also true. I drove to JHC and parked in a remote visitors’ lot. Many more cars dotted the campus today, and the first two areas I tried were full.

  I walked from my car, crossing a small grassy field with a path worn in its center. The athletic buildings were on the other side, across another stretch of asphalt. From there, three large men approached me. I got the feeling they were not just out for a stroll as each stared at me with every step. Coach Baker must have talked about our little chat. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him to fuck himself. A simple go-to-hell might have earned me a smaller welcoming committee.