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  Outline for Murder

  A Michael Bishop Mystery

  by

  Anthony J. Pucci

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Anthony J. Pucci

  All rights reserved.

  Epigraph

  “But in the end truth will out.”

  William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, II, ii.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The last thing he needed was to get pulled over by a cop on the way to school. He could almost hear his students peppering him with their desire for details. “Were you texting?” “Did you get a ticket?” His colleagues would be no better. Their comforting words, “Don’t worry, Mike,” would be followed by offers to visit him in jail.

  Michael Bishop wasn’t going to chance a ticket by answering his cell phone while driving down Prospect Hill Road. Who could be calling him this early in the morning? With his curiosity trumping his annoyance, he put on his right turn signal and pulled in to a Stop N Go. With the engine still running, he pulled out his cell and saw that the incoming call was from someone at school. Why would anyone bother to call him when they knew that he always arrived before 8:00 a.m.? He took the call just before it went to voice mail.

  “Mike? It’s Sister Ann. I’m glad I caught you.” Sister Ann was the middle-aged Sister of The Holy Rosary who was the principal at Holy Trinity High School. Behind her unassuming exterior was a sharp intellect and a steely determination to get what she wanted. Her detractors, of whom there were many, said that she lacked people skills and that she relied too much on the advice of Sister Pat, one of the assistant principals. There was an edge to her voice this Monday morning.

  Bishop didn’t know what was coming. “Hi, Sister. I’ve already left for school. Anything wrong?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” as the edge to her voice became decidedly sharper. “Al Zappala was supposed to be here at seven sharp this morning to have a conference with the Delaneys. He’s late and I’m not dealing with them without him in this office.”

  Zappala was in his third year as the school’s football coach and gym teacher. No one knew really knew him all that well. He was loud, abrasive, and crude. As long as his teams were winning, he knew that he could do whatever he wanted. “How can I help, Sister?”

  “I want you to go over to that man’s house and get him over here now. I’ve called, but he’s not picking up. Since you seem to get along with him better than most, I thought if I caught you before you got here, you could get over there fast. He probably had too much to drink again last night and is sleeping it off.”

  Sister and Bishop both knew that Zappala had a problem. Even the kids knew. He recently had told a PE class to go out and “toss the ball around” while he caught up on some paper work. One of the students who had been late to class found him in his office stretched out between two chairs, dead to the world.

  “Okay, I’m on my way right now. Will you have someone cover my homeroom?”

  “Don’t worry about that.” Her voice snapped like a whip. “Just get that s.o.b. here. And he better have a damn good reason for making me and the Delaneys wait.” She hung up without saying thank you or goodbye. Sister Ann was definitely not having a good Monday morning. The “damn” and “s.o.b” coming from a nun didn’t surprise him. He’d learned through the years that most nuns weren’t much different than everybody else.

  As he made his way back across town, Bishop thought about the coach. Does he realize what kind of trouble he’s in? Why would he blow off this meeting? Did he really think that he could get away with his “I’m-the-coach-and-I-can-do-whatever-I-want” attitude? Albert Zappala did have an impressive coaching record. He was the only coach in the area to have more than 200 career football victories. His teams had won three State titles. That was during his time at Madison High about one hundred and eighty miles west of Groveland. After coaching there for twenty-five years, he had stunned the Madison community when he resigned and took a job as PE teacher and head football coach at Trinity for half the salary. That was a little more than two years ago. Since then, he hadn’t made too many friends, but he didn’t seem to care. He lived for football. His teams won. No one asked too many questions. Bishop thought about what Sister had said. He didn’t consider Zappala a friend, but he did try to get along with everyone on the faculty.

  Bishop passed his own house on his way up Prospect Hill Road. He owned an old farmhouse out in the country. After spending his day with so many people, he appreciated the quiet this place afforded him. Maybe Zappala lived up this way for the same reason. He had never thought to ask him. For Bishop, the solitude was more pronounced since he had lost his wife, Grace, eight years ago. Teaching was now his saving “grace.” That was the reason that when he turned 65, he didn’t retire. His students kept him young.

  It was strange to be driving in this direction at this time of the day. Now that the days were getting shorter, he appreciated the sunlight even more. In the short time since he had driven down this road, the sky had brightened considerably. Bishop was looking forward to getting into the routine of the school day. Trying to put thoughts of confronting Zappala out of his mind, he began to anticipate his day, going over what he planned to do in each of his classes.

  As he approached Zappala’s house, he slowed down. He’d never been in the house, although he had given the coach a ride to school on several occasions. A black Lincoln Town Car had been backed into the stone driveway and was facing the road. What was he thinking driving a car like that? More than a few teachers had muttered something about him showing off. “Gonna give people the wrong idea about us Catholic school teachers,” Steve Marshall had joked in the faculty room one day. Steve, who had a wife, four kids, and Dodge minivan with 157,000 miles on it, was only half joking.

  He pulled his Toyota Corolla up to the Lincoln, took the keys from the ignition, and walked up to the front door. If Zappala were “sick,” Bishop would call Sister and tell her that the meeting with the Delaneys would have to be rescheduled. He suspected that the meeting had been prompted by Zappala’s decision to bench their son, Chris, for the second half of Friday night’s win over Central. Trinity was ahead 28-0 at the half so it wasn’t as if the coach was risking a team win. He must have wanted to make a point with Chris, and he made it the only way he knew how. The Delaneys were counting on Chris getting a football scholarship, and he wasn’t going to impress the college scouts sitting on the bench.

  As Bishop approached the house, he saw his reflection in the glass panels on either side of the front door. He was wearing what he typically wore for school – a button
down dress shirt mostly obscured by a crew neck sweater, Docker pants, and a pair of comfortable Rockport shoes. Fortunately, he had never developed the paunch that most men did, nor did he have wrinkles or jowls. One of the more prominent features of his face was the thick salt and pepper moustache that he had worn for years. Overall, he didn’t think that he looked all of his seventy years. Most days, he certainly didn’t feel that old.

  Through the glass panel, he could see that the front door opened into the living room. There was a sofa to the right of the door where newspapers had been tossed, but his view in that direction was partially obscured. A large flat screen TV mounted on the wall was on. ESPN was showing highlights of yesterday’s NFL action. A recliner was positioned opposite the screen. To its right was a small table with a glass, a couple of beer cans, and a half-empty bowl of chips. If he had had too much to drink last night, he was, at least, up and about, and catching up on the scores. Bishop figured that it would take only a couple of minutes to pop in, remind him of his meeting with the Delaneys, tell him about Sister Ann’s call, and then head back down to Trinity. He hoped that he wouldn’t miss too much of his first period class. He wanted to hand back those Romeo and Juliet essays to his Honors Freshmen. Grading papers had consumed so much of his weekend. He was pleased that most of the kids had really seemed to take a liking to the Bard.

  Other than the muffled sounds from the TV, all was quiet. Maybe Zappala was taking a shower. He tried the doorbell this time. Nothing. It probably was broken, and the coach wouldn’t have bothered to do anything about it. Although money never seemed to be a problem for him, he certainly didn’t spend much on the maintenance of his home or yard. The old wooden exterior was in need of a new coat of paint, overgrown shrubs crept above the window frames, and his riding mower was sitting in the middle of his half-mowed lawn. Growing impatient, Bishop dispensed with etiquette and pounded on the door this time. This guy was going to make him late for class. Still there was no response. Since Zappala could be belligerent and obnoxious even when he was sober, Bishop prepared himself for an unpleasant encounter and banged on the door with both fists. Still nothing. He tried the handle, expecting it to be locked. He was surprised when the door actually opened.

  “Al? Coach? It’s me, Mike Bishop. May I come in?”

  The only response was “Just Do It.” It was a Nike commercial on ESPN.

  Bishop closed the door behind him, walked farther into the living room where the television was showing a replay of a controversial call made by an official in one of yesterday’s games. Zappala wasn’t taking a shower. He wasn’t having breakfast. He was lying face down on the shag carpet in front of the sofa.

  Asleep? Passed out?

  “Coach! Coach! Are you okay? What happened?”

  Bishop bent over the stocky man who probably outweighed him by a hundred pounds, wondering if he would have the strength to lift him up. The maroon sweatshirt he was wearing was likely one with a Holy Trinity logo on the front. His jeans were cinched at the waist with a black belt. He had white crew socks on and no shoes. Instead of the scent of beer that he expected to notice, Bishop was aware of a strange odor that he couldn’t quite identify when he was close to the body. He felt his left wrist and his neck for a pulse. His skin was cold. Zappala was dead.

  Involuntarily, Bishop’s entire body jerked backward and as he tried to regain his footing, he tumbled into the small table, knocking it over. The cans were empty, and the glass must have been mostly empty as not much beer actually spilled onto the rug. He tossed the cans in a small wastebasket on the other side of the recliner and quickly picked up the glass and the chips as well as his shaking hands would allow. The reality of his colleague’s death was sinking in. Poor guy. He must have had a heart attack. He was a prime candidate. Mid-fifties. Overweight. Heavy drinker. Lots of stress. 200 wins and three titles don’t come without stress.

  ***

  Bishop grabbed his cell phone, and went outside. He thought that some fresh air might help. He made the call to 911 although this was not an emergency. His next call was more difficult.

  “Good morning. Holy Trinity High School. May I help you?” It was the bubbly voice of Terry Mortenson, the school’s office secretary who had been a true friend to Bishop over the years, especially in those dark weeks and months after Grace died. Of the office staff, only Terry could be that bubbly on a Monday morning.

  “Terry, this is Mike. I need to talk to Sister Ann right away.”

  “How late are you going to be? I already got someone to cover your first period class.”

  “I don’t know. That’s not why I’m calling. Just get Sister, please.”

  “Mike, I’m sorry. She’s in a meeting with the Delaneys, and she isn’t in a very good mood because Zappala hasn’t shown up.”

  “I know, Terry. That’s why I’m calling. Al isn’t going to show up. I’m at his house right now. He’s dead, Terry.”

  “What! Oh my God! How awful! What happened? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m all right, I guess. Shaking a little, but I’ll be fine. I called 911 and help should be here soon. You need to get Sister Ann on the phone.”

  “Right. Let me put you on hold. I can’t believe this has happened.” The bubbly quality of her voice had been replaced by a noticeable quivering.

  He was on hold for no more than thirty seconds when he heard the voice of Sister Ann for the second time that morning.

  “Mike. What’s happened?”

  “I went up to his house to give him your message, and there was no answer when I knocked on the door. I could see that the television was on, so I thought he was either hung over or taking a shower. The door was unlocked. I didn’t see him until I walked in. Must have been quick. Probably happened last night when he was watching television.”

  “Mike, you stay there. Do you want me to send Ron up there?” Ron Jennings was one of the assistant principals and a good friend.

  “No. There’s no need. Nothing he can do. I’ll be fine. What will you tell the kids?”

  “Good question. The only family that he had lived in Connecticut as far as I know. I’ll let the police notify them, but I need to tell the kids. They’ll want the truth. I’ve been through this before. When I was principal at Pope Pius in Brooklyn, one of the teachers dropped dead during cafeteria duty. We’re in for a rough few days. I’ll alert Guidance and Father Mahoney. I’ll wait until the end of first period to make an announcement. I’ll lead them in a prayer.” She added, “Mike, I’m sorry that you had to be the one to find him.” It wasn’t often that she said she was sorry about anything.

  “Thanks, Sister. I’ll be down as soon as I can. Good luck with the announcement.”

  “Right.”

  Sister’s comment about the truth stayed with him. Yes, kids do want the truth. So does everyone else for that matter, but the truth was not always what the Holy Trinity community got from her. She ran the school as if it were her own little kingdom, dispensing the truth, or her version of it, when and how she saw fit.

  As he re-entered the house, he heard the ESPN host still discussing that controversial call with two analysts on a split screen. He picked up the remote to turn off the chatter. Coach would certainly have had an opinion on the matter, one that he would have shared with you whether you wanted to hear it or not. That was one of the things that put people off about him. When he put the remote down, he realized that the last person to touch it was now dead. He took another look at the body. His left arm was extended above his torso as if he was reaching for something. His right arm was underneath his body. The man who had been such an intimidating presence was gone. The Delaneys wouldn’t have the chance to vent their anger. Sister Ann would have to come up with some nice things to say about that s.o.b.

  Chapter 2

  The 911 response team had yet to arrive. In the interim, Bishop faced the prospect of being in the presence of a dead man, a man who worked where he worked and lived on the same street. The realization that his
colleague’s life had been so quickly taken left him shaken. At seventy, he was easily fifteen years older than the coach. He tried to suppress thoughts of his own mortality. His legs were still shaky, his stomach queasy, and his mouth dry. He decided to find the bathroom. As he walked through the kitchen with its clutter of dishes in the sink and an empty pizza box on the counter, he heard the faint sounds of music. As he walked down the hallway, he recognized the voice of Mama Cass signing, “Monday, Monday.” The music was coming from the clock/radio in Zappala’s bedroom. He pressed the off button and took a quick look around the room. There were a few sports magazines on his dresser, another television on a stand opposite his bed, and a basket of clean clothes that hadn’t been put away. There were no photos of himself or his family. The bed had not been slept in. Bishop found the room cold and depressing.

  He walked by another bedroom that was obviously used as an office/trophy room. A metal desk like the ones at school stood against one wall, its top littered with papers and file folders. On a small table next to the desk, there was a small television, a DVD player, and stacks of disks in their jewel cases. He had probably used that to watch film of opposing teams. Another larger table held so many trophies that it looked like it would collapse under its own weight. The walls were covered with sports photos. The partially opened closet door revealed cardboard boxes stacked to the ceiling. Clearly, the coach had been something of a pack rat.

  Entering the bathroom across the hall, he ran some cold water from the sink and splashed some on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror above the sink. The shock he had just experienced was clearly written on his face. As he dried his hands, he noticed a bottle of Grecian hair conditioner on the counter. Most people figured that Zappala had used something, but no one really knew why he would bother. Now they would never know that or much else about this man. Bishop took a couple of slow, deep breaths and steeled himself for the rest of his morning. It was anything but “just another Monday.”