A Question of Judgment: A Michael Bishop Mystery Read online

  Mary Ellen found Ron and Bishop staring into the darkness. She hugged them both. “This is just so unbelievable,” she said as much to herself as to them.

  “Do you want to join the others at the hospital?” she asked Ron.

  “No. I don’t think that I would be of much help to anybody right now.” He ran his fingers through his hair as he relived the last few moments of Nick’s life. “When I got there, he was lying on the trainer’s table. Red tried CPR, but there was no response. Some man, a doctor I guess, rushed in, checked his vital signs, and shook his head. Nick was gone. When Nick’s mother realized what was going on, she tried to scream, but nothing came out. She crumpled to the floor in agony, and the doctor assisted in getting her out of there. Fr. Mahoney gave him last rites just as the ambulance arrived.” Ron covered his face with his hands as he struggled with that memory.

  Some moments later, Ron’s cell phone beeped. The text he received confirmed what he already knew. Nick had been pronounced dead on arrival. He gave the phone to Mary Ellen so that she could read the text for herself. The expression on her face told Bishop all that he needed to know. That a seemingly healthy young man could suffer such a sudden death was almost incomprehensible.

  “Why don’t we all go for a cup of coffee?” Mary Ellen suggested. “If they need you at the hospital, I’m sure that they’ll call you.”

  “She’s right, Ron,” Bishop said. “Get some coffee and then try to get some rest. I think I’ll just head home.”

  “Are you sure? You are more than welcome to join us. It’s not good to be alone at a time like this”

  “I know that, and I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be fine.” Bishop was impressed with the way Mary Ellen was handling the situation. Ron was fortunate to have her in his life.

  ***

  As he walked toward his car, he realized that it was one of the only ones still parked out in the grass. Just a little more than an hour earlier, he had been happy to see Terry and Sarah pull in next to him. At that moment, Borelli had probably been in the locker room, joking around with the guys, thinking about the big game. How quickly everything could change. He thought of the line from Shakespeare’s Macbeth, “Out, out, brief candle!/ Life’s but a walking shadow,/ That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,/ And then is heard no more.”

  He had attended his fair share of wakes and funerals over the years, none more painful than that of Grace, his wife of thirty-eight years, who had died suddenly of a ruptured appendix while on vacation in Las Vegas. Even though he scarcely knew Nick personally, the unexpected loss of one so young was especially difficult for Bishop to understand. Of course, he had read about such incidents in the newspapers and seen the accounts on television. Often the cause was heat exhaustion or some undetected heart ailment. Nothing quite like this had ever happened at Trinity. It really didn’t matter now what had caused the young man’s death. What was important was getting everyone through the next week or so. Bishop knew that there were dark days ahead for Nick’s family and for the Holy Trinity community.

  As soon as he arrived home, he grabbed a flashlight and a leash and took Max, the Jack Russell terrier that had unexpectedly became a part of his life, for his evening walk. Knowing that Max had been alone for most of the day and evening, he doubled the time of their usual walk in the chilly air of the cloudy March night. When they returned to the house, it was obvious that the walk had done both of them some good. Max curled up on the ottoman in the sunroom, the only piece of furniture on which he was allowed to jump. Bishop made himself a cup of Earl Grey tea, placed a CD in the player, and sat down in his favorite recliner. He didn’t even try to finish the Iain Pears mystery novel that he had been reading as he knew that he wouldn’t be able to concentrate. He sat back and let the comforting sounds of Beethoven’s Sonata 14 in C-sharp minor, also known as the “Moonlight Sonata,” fill the room. As much as he tried to imagine himself transported to the tranquility of Switzerland’s Lake Lucerne, he could not prevent his mind from returning to the loss of that young man.

  He knew that the next few days at school would be difficult as students and staff alike struggled to make sense of this senseless tragedy. Nick’s locker would become the focal point for expressions of grief and messages of love. Sarah Humphries and Eric Redstone, the school’s guidance counselors, and Fr. Mahoney, the chaplain, would have their doors open for anyone who wanted to talk. From Bishop’s past experience, he knew that many students would prefer to carry on the normal routines of the day. He would assess the mood of each of his classes on Monday and respond to their needs as best he could.

  ***

  The next morning, he woke from a restless sleep. He dreamt that he was trying to teach a class, but none of the students was paying attention. Finally, they settled down, and he began to read a poem by A. E. Housman, “To an Athlete Dying Young.” Many of the students cried softly. The poem is about a runner who wins a race for his town. The people celebrate his triumph by crowning him with a wreath of laurel leaves and parading him through the streets on their shoulders. He dies shortly thereafter, and the townspeople once again bear him on their shoulders as they bring him to his final resting place. As Housman explains in his elegy, this “smart lad” dies before the glory of his victory has a chance to fade. It is an attempt to find solace in the loss of one so young and talented.

  When Bishop finished reading the poem, he looked up at the class. They sat in silence as they pondered the meaning of the poem. He couldn’t understand why he didn’t recognize any of his students. Then, one young man rose from his seat in the back of the room. It was Nick Borelli wearing a crown of laurel leaves. As he passed through the closed classroom door, Bishop woke up. He usually forgot his dreams fairly quickly, but this one lingered for a while despite his attempts to think of something else.

  After he showered and dressed, he took Max for his morning walk. Despite the frost, the clear blue skies promised a warm afternoon. The grass was still dormant, but the first robins had returned. Several clusters of crocus had emerged along the walkway leading to the front door. The flowers were closed tightly against the morning chill, but the sun would soon enable them to display their bright blues and yellows. He had forgotten that they were there, planted years ago by his wife. They would bloom for only a short time, like the lad in Housman’s poem, like Nick Borelli.

  ***

  Back in the house, Bishop ate his breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and green tea in the sunroom. He put his phone in airplane mode as he needed a little time for himself. He spent the rest of the morning tidying up around the house, doing the laundry, and balancing his checkbook. For lunch, he settled on a bowl of cereal and a banana. He knew he needed to do some food shopping, but he decided that that could wait until Monday after school.

  He opened the passenger door of his Toyota Corolla, and Max jumped in. With no particular destination in mind, he just started driving. Instead of going down Pleasant Hill Road as he usually did to reach the center of Groveland or to get to school, he turned right at the end of his driveway, and headed farther up the hill. Max seemed to pick up on the change in routine as he sniffed the air from the partially opened window. He drove past the house that had belonged to Al Zappala, Trinity’s vile football coach, whose murder investigation had been a painful chapter in Bishop’s life.

  He drove the country two-lane roads, turning occasionally either left or right for no reason. Eventually, he saw a sign for Route 110 that would make his return trip must faster. He stopped at a sub shop on the way home and picked up something for dinner which he often did since he found cooking for one such an unpleasant task. That evening, there were a couple of good college basketball games on television, but after the events of last night, he had no interest in them. He rummaged through his collection of DVDs and selected a movie based on Agatha Christie’s Evil Under the Sun, starring David Suchet as the Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot.

  Taking the day to relax worked. He slept much better that
night, and was ready to face a new day. He wanted to find out how Ron was doing, but since it was too early to call, he decided to work his way through a couple of sets of quizzes, leaving the more demanding work of grading essays for later that day.

  His cell phone rang just after ten.

  “Are you busy?” asked a tired-sounding Ron.

  “Just the usual, grading some papers. I was planning to call you today, but I figured I’d let you sleep in.”

  “I wish Sister Pat had been so considerate. She called me just after seven this morning.”

  “Really? If you don’t mind my asking, what did she want?”

  “I know that whatever I tell you never goes any further.”

  “Of course.”

  “I was still half asleep when she called. Didn’t sleep very well the last couple of nights,” he admitted.

  Bishop’s dream on Friday night came back to him momentarily. “I know what you mean.”

  “Anyway, she had a lot to say. Nick’s family is going to have the funeral on Wednesday in Fremont, their hometown.”

  “Freemont? Where is that?” He wondered how Nick had ended up in Groveland and why he had left Dunhill Academy.

  “It’s a small town about a hundred miles from here. Instead of having most of the student body going down there and missing a day of school, she is going to have Fr. Mahoney conduct a brief memorial service on Monday morning.”

  “I’m sure that some of his closest friends and the guys on the team will want to be there on Wednesday, but for the rest of the kids, I guess that makes sense.”

  “She also told me that the coaches of both teams had agreed to finish the suspended game on Monday night.”

  “So soon? What’s the rush?”

  “My thoughts, exactly, but the winner goes to the state tournament, and apparently, that schedule can’t be changed.”

  “That’s going to be tough on the boys. They might play inspired ball as a tribute to Nick, or they might just fold, but Nick’s death puts everything in perspective. Win or lose, it’s just a game.”

  “It’s a game for which they plan to charge admission just as they did on Friday.”

  “Nothing they do surprises me, but that is so wrong,” Bishop said, both disappointed and angered by their greed.

  “It was bad enough that they didn’t accept passes to the game in the first place, but to charge them twice will upset a lot of people.”

  “They’re quite good at that,” Bishop said sarcastically.

  “I tried to get her to reconsider that decision. She said she’d think about it.”

  “I’ve heard that response from her many times. It means that she’s going to do exactly what she wants to do despite your good advice.”

  “You haven’t heard the worst of the news,” said Ron soberly.

  “What else have they done?”

  “They forced Annette to resign.”

  “What on earth for?”

  Ron explained that Annette hadn’t finished counting the receipts from the game on Friday night, so she went back Saturday morning to finish up. When she arrived at her office door, she realized that it was closed, but not locked. She immediately opened her desk drawer and discovered that all of the bills were missing. She called Sister Ann, and she and Sister Pat rushed over. Annette didn’t know for sure how much money was taken, but she guessed that it was in the neighborhood of four or five thousand dollars.

  “Was the money in a locked drawer?”

  “Funny you should ask,” replied Ron. “It seems that Annette had asked Sister Ann for a small safe for her office on numerous occasions. Sister either told her that the school couldn’t afford one, or that she didn’t need one because she should bring any money that came in directly to the bank.”

  “Did they call the police?”

  “No. Sister didn’t see the need.”

  “Unbelievable! I know that Annette had trouble locking her office door. She was complaining to me about that when I passed by her office before the end of the pep rally on Friday. She must have accidentally left the office unlocked.”

  Bishop added that there were many people in the building that night because of the game. Anyone of them might have discovered the unlocked door. With the security cameras down, there was no way of knowing who might be responsible.

  “That’s one theory,” Ron said dismissively.

  “What do you mean? What other explanation could there be?”

  “Sister Ann basically accused Annette of faking the robbery and stealing the money herself.”

  “That’s ridiculous! Annette may not be the most lovable person in the building, but she would never do something like that!”

  “I agree.”

  “Who will they get to replace her?”

  “Good question. I have no idea, and I didn’t think to ask.”

  Before ending the call, they talked briefly about the events of Friday night. Both men seem to have worked through the initial shock of Borelli’s sudden death. The feeling that the worst was over proved to be far from the truth.

  Chapter Four

  The prayer service on Monday was a somber affair. It was not often that hundreds of students gathered in complete silence. Bishop was seated a few rows behind the principal and the assistant principal. When Fr. Mahoney stood up to approach the podium, Sister Pat leaned over and whispered to Sister Ann, “I told him to keep it short.” Although she had whispered, a number of people seated in that area heard her inappropriate comment. One of the students turned around in disbelief. Sister Pat wagged her finger at him and demanded that he turn around and pay attention.

  Father spoke about the mystery of death and the importance of having faith in God’s plan even when we didn’t understand it. Several students shared memories of Nick as a friend and as a teammate. Dave Cavanaugh, the senior captain of the Holy Trinity Knights, read the sonnet, “Death, Be Not Proud” by John Donne. In the poem, the speaker argues that death is not to be feared since it proves to be powerless. “One short sleep past, we wake eternally,/ And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.” Bishop had taught that poem many times. He was never quite sure if the speaker was trying to convince others, or if he was trying to convince himself.

  As the service ended, everyone headed out to first period class. Some students were sobbing softly as their friends gave them comforting hugs. Bishop waved to Mary Ellen who was seated in the back of the auditorium. He hadn’t expected her to take time from work to attend the prayer service. Ron was fortunate to have such a thoughtful companion.

  Bishop was seated at his desk when the first arrivals for his Advanced Placement English class quietly entered the room. He checked his laptop for email expecting to find a message from the principal, but there was nothing of importance.

  “Should we make a circle, Mr. Bishop?” asked Matt Gomez, one of the eleven students in the class.

  Since this was a seminar rather than a lecture class, most of the time, the students arranged their desks in a circle with Bishop seated as one of the group. The intention was to encourage the students to be full participants. The teacher’s role was to guide the discussion, not to dominate it.

  Monday mornings were usually tough sledding at best. Students were tired from their weekend activities, and it was especially true of a first period class. Having just returned from the prayer service for Nick, these seniors were particularly morose. The class was discussing William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury, a very challenging novel. The veteran teacher knew that getting back into the routine was often the best approach, so he simply asked, “Any questions?”

  Jeannette, who was seated almost directly across from Bishop, raised her hand. Her long blonde hair was held back by two heart-shaped red barrettes above her temples. A pair of large tortoise shell glasses gave her a distinctive look. Bright and fearless in expressing her opinions, Bishop could easily imagine her as a successful lawyer in the not-too-distant future.

  “What did you thin
k of Dave Cavanaugh’s reading?”

  Discussion of Faulkner was put on hold. For a brief moment, he thought of the strange dream he had had in which he read Housman’s poem. “I thought that Donne’s poem was an excellent choice.” He tried to turn their focus back to literature. “I especially like the last line, ‘Death, thou shalt die.’ There are several poetic devices at work there. Maggie, can you give me an example?”

  Without any hesitation, she said, “Well, there’s alliteration in the words “death” and “die.”

  “Absolutely. And that alliteration is even more effective since the “d” sound is a plosive, giving more power to the speaker’s belief that death can be conquered.” He looked around the circle of faces. Were they still thinking about the service or were they thinking about the poem as a poem?

  “Any other devices?” After a moment’s pause, he gave them a hint. “What about the fact that the speaker is directly addressing something inanimate?”

  The girl sitting next to Jeannette, whose name Bishop suddenly couldn’t recall, raised her hand.

  “Yes?”

  “Apostrophe,” she answered tentatively.

  Rachel? … Ann? … Teresa? How could he not remember this girl’s name? He had known her for almost four years. He had to stall. “Isn’t an apostrophe a mark of punctuation?” he asked with mock seriousness.

  She smiled. “Yes, but it’s also a poetic technique.”

  “You’re right, of course … Linda.” Linda Mahood. How could he have forgotten?

  “What about the apparent contradiction in the statement that death will die? What is that called?”

  Several students raised their hand. “Pete, what do you say?”

  “It’s a paradox.”

  “Isn’t that when you see two physicians walking down the hall? They’re a pair of docs,” he said matter-of-factly.

  As Pete and the others began to smile and groan, he thought that the class was ready to get back to their discussion of Faulkner.