A Question of Judgment: A Michael Bishop Mystery Page 7

  Chapter Eight

  Even though it was a Saturday, his internal clock woke him up at 5:30 a.m. He put on his slippers and robe and went into the still-darkened sunroom. As he switched on a lamp, Max jumped from the ottoman to greet him. The dog waited patiently as Bishop fastened his collar and leash. The morning air was crisp and still as Max alternately walked and sniffed his way to one of his favorite spots.

  That done, Max skipped around the kitchen as Bishop opened the container of dog food. It took more time for his owner to put two scoops of nuggets into his bowl than it did for him to devour every single piece. When finished, he feverishly sniffed around the bowl just in case a morsel had eluded him. Once he was convinced that his pleading looks would not garner him any more food for the moment, he took a long drink of water and settled down until it was time to go out for a walk again.

  Bishop considered the leftover pizza for breakfast, but he resisted temptation and resolved to save that treat for lunch. He settled for the usual cereal with banana (since he was fortunate enough to have one on the counter that hadn’t gone bad yet), a piece of rye toast, and a cup of green tea. He could afford to have a more leisurely breakfast in the sunroom, watching the progression of spring on his property. The bright yellows of his forsythia bushes contrasted with the lilac buds that were still a few weeks from blooming.

  After taking Max for a long walk, he tended to a few household chores, waiting for an appropriate hour to make his call to Ron Jennings. He no longer needed the paper reminder of the question that he wanted to ask. Just as he started to key in Ron’s number, his phone rang. It was Lieutenant Hodge who apologized if he had called too early. Clearly, there was something that he wanted to discuss with his unofficial associate in the investigation.

  “I spoke with Coach Wagner yesterday,” he said in a serious tone.

  “I know. He stopped by my place yesterday after he met with you.”

  “How did he seem to you?”

  “Well, he seemed quite shaken. I’m not sure if that was caused by reading the news that someone murdered Nick or by your questioning him.”

  “Probably a mixture of the two,” suggested the detective. “That was a tough call for me as well. Red and I went to high school together. I know him pretty well, and I don’t think that he’s capable of committing such a crime.”

  Max jumped up on the ottoman looking for some attention. As he stroked the dog’s back, Bishop replied, “Given the right set of circumstances, I guess anyone is capable of murder.” After a pause, he added, “When he was here yesterday, I had the feeling that he was holding something back.”

  “I’m glad you said that. I got the same feeling when I talked with him. I guess everyone who had the opportunity to hurt Nick is a suspect until we can definitely rule them out.”

  “I agree. With that open locker room, any number of people would have had the opportunity to put something in his water. Certainly, that amount of caffeine could have easily been obtained on the Internet by anyone with a credit card. The real question is who had a strong enough motive to actually do it.” He then relayed the speculation that he had heard at school on Friday regarding Dave Cavanaugh and Liz Atkins. He also told him about the fight between Derek Yeager and Sam Blanchard.

  “Thanks for giving me those names,” the lieutenant said, “but remember that ninety-nine percent of what you hear is baseless speculation.”

  Having worked with Hodge on a couple of previous cases, he knew that all too well. The challenge was to find that one piece of information that unlocks the mystery.

  “Well, thanks for your call. I’ll be sure to let you know if I hear anything else.”

  “I do have one more suspect to add to the list.”

  It wasn’t what Bishop had expected to hear. “Really? Who?”

  “I received a call from Alice Urbanski.” It took a second for Bishop to recall that Alice was Nick Borelli’s mother. He couldn’t believe that Hodge was about to include her as a suspect in her own son’s death. Perhaps Steinbeck was right that there were monsters among us.

  “And?”

  “And she urged me to investigate her ex-husband.”

  “Why didn’t she mention that when you visited her the other day?”

  “That’s exactly what I asked her. She said that she was so distraught by the news that she wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “That’s understandable, but what is her rationale for pointing the finger at…” hesitating as he tried to recall the man’s name “…him?”

  “She claims that after their contentious divorce was finalized, he was very bitter and that he threatened to ruin her life.”

  “By killing his own son?” he asked in disbelief.

  “He didn’t actually threaten Nick. I suppose there are other ways that he could ruin her life.”

  “Does she have any witnesses to back up that claim?”

  “No, but I have a friend on the force in Freemont, and I’ve asked him to do some digging on this guy.”

  ***

  Their conversation ended shortly after that unexpected revelation. Bishop wondered how even the most acrimonious of divorces could lead someone to murder one’s own child as a means of exacting revenge against a spouse. The short story, “Mateo Falcone,” by Luigi Pirandello came to mind, not because it dealt with divorce or revenge. There was, however, a chilling similarity to the scenario suggested by Mrs. Urbanski.

  His students found Pirandello’s story disturbing, and for good reason. The narrator of the story is someone who supposedly knew Mateo years after the events of the tale which takes place in Corsica in the 1800s. Mateo has a young son by the name of Fortunato who is his pride and joy. As the only male child, it would be his “good fortune” to one day inherit his father’s property, hence the name “Fortunato.”

  However, one day when Fortunato is alone, a desperate bandit appears on the doorstep seeking protection from the soldiers pursuing him. According to the values of that time and place, the boy should have hidden the bandit. However, he boldly refused to help until the bandit offered him a bribe. When the soldiers arrived, the boy again calmly refused to help. When they offered a better bribe, Fortunato betrayed the trust the bandit had placed in him. When Mateo returned and realized that his son had committed such a dishonorable act, he shot and killed his only son, citing justice as the reason for his death. Mateo was never punished.

  Mateo’s thought process is chilling and disturbing. As he recalled the story, Bishop remembered that Nick’s father’s name was Victor. Was it possible that he could have convinced himself that his hatred of his wife was strong enough to lead him to murder his own son?

  Wanting to put those thoughts out of his mind, he called Ron Jennings. There was quite a bit of background noise coming from Ron’s cell. He heard a squawky voice but couldn’t make out the words. He assumed that Ron was at the drive-thru window of a fast food place. After a bit of small talk, he turned to the question that he had wanted to ask. “Do you remember who cleaned out Nick’s locker?”

  “I’m pretty sure his mother did. Why do you ask?”

  “Sister Pascala mentioned that she had seen Dave Cavanaugh pass a note to Nick in her class shortly before his death. Apparently, he slipped the note into his chemistry notebook, and I am just curious to know what was in that note.” He realized as he articulated his interest that the note was probably one of the many harmless notes that students pass to their friends in class when they are bored.

  “You don’t really buy Jack’s theory that Dave had something to do with Nick’s death, do you?” From the sounds of the rattling of paper, Bishop realized that Ron was about to dig into his order.

  “No, I don’t, but I don’t like loose ends either.” Bishop also did not like the fact that Jack was spreading his theory about Dave’s possible motivation. He recalled a line from Shakespeare’s Othello stating that reputation is “oft … lost without deserving.” Most likely, the content of the note Dave passed to Nick was c
ompletely irrelevant, but he wouldn’t know for certain until he had seen it for himself.

  “His mother might have already disposed of his personal belongings,” Ron suggested as he munched on whatever it was that he had purchased.

  “That’s true,” admitted Bishop, “but it will only take a phone call to find out.”

  After a moment’s pause, Ron said tentatively, “You know, I’ve been thinking back to the night of that game against Catholic Central.”

  That remark took Bishop by surprise. He didn’t know where Ron was headed with that remark, but he assumed that if he gave him a moment, he would explain further.

  “That doctor that came in…” Ron seemed lost in the moment as he recalled that painful night. “… just didn’t seem to try very hard to save Nick’s life.”

  “I remember you telling me that Red had administered CPR and that by the time the doctor arrived, Nick was gone.”

  “I know. I know,” Ron said as he struggled to deal with the implications of his suspicion. “He didn’t even ask if we had a defibrillator. He seemed more focused on comforting Nick’s mother and getting her out of that locker room.”

  Bishop attempted to allay his friend’s concerns. “Well, doctors are trained to remain calm in the most difficult of situations, and if he was certain that Nick was dead, there was nothing more that he could do. Dr. Andrews had been sitting in the stands with Nick’s mother, so it would make sense that he try to help her through that traumatic moment.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” The skepticism in his voice was obvious.

  That skepticism now took hold in Bishop. “What do you know about Dr. Andrews?”

  “Nothing, really. I didn’t even know who he was when he came in that night.”

  “I had never seen him before, either, but Terry and Sarah had stopped to chat with the doctor and Mrs. Urbanski at the game that night. On Monday, I’ll ask them what they know about the doc.”

  “If it involves the Holy Trinity community, rest assured that one or the other of them will know about it,” he said jokingly.

  Bishop agreed, but he didn’t laugh.

  ***

  Bishop made himself a cup of tea, went into the sunroom and turned on the stereo that was set to his favorite FM station, the one that carried NPR. As he sat in his favorite recliner, the announcer introduced the next selection of classical music. He sipped his tea as the London Symphony Orchestra performed Felix Mendelssohn’s overture, “Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage.”

  The veteran teacher was inwardly anything but calm. Nick had been murdered, and the list of suspects was growing. David Cavanaugh was his teammate and close friend. Could his frustration over lost playing time have led him to commit this horrific act? What was in the note that he passed to Nick in Chemistry class a few days before that fateful game? Liz Atkins was Nick’s girlfriend until he dumped her for Ashley Barrington. Could she have been so devastated by that as to seek the ultimate revenge? It would have been easy for Red Wagner to lace Nick’s water bottle with the lethal dose of caffeine, but why would he want to harm the one player who could bring him a state title?

  Nick’s parents had finalized their divorce. His father, Vincent, had apparently threatened to destroy the mother’s life. Could taking the life of his own son have been the fulfillment of that threat? And what about Dr. Andrews? What was his relationship to Nick’s mother, Alice? More than the others, a doctor would have known of the dangers of pure caffeine. What possible motivation could one who had taken the Hippocratic oath to preserve life have for taking a life? At any rate, by the time he had arrived on the scene, Nick was apparently dead.

  By the time Mendelssohn’s overture had concluded, Bishop was certain of two facts: none of these suspects could be eliminated from consideration, and other suspects were likely to emerge.

  Chapter Nine

  When Bishop arrived at school on Monday morning, he found the same few cars in the faculty parking lot that were usually there. However, he didn’t recognize a late model Kia Sorento. He wondered which one of his colleagues had purchased a new vehicle. As he entered the building, he was relieved to see that Sister Pat was not in her customary post, harassing just about anyone who walked through the doors.

  He greeted a few students who were in the halls as he made his way to the faculty lounge. He wanted to check the headlines of the morning newspaper and make himself a cup of tea to take up to his room. If Sister Pat was not in her usual place acting as the antithesis of a Walmart greeter, Jack, the maintenance man, was in his.

  “How is Mr. Bishop today,” he asked as he lifted his reading glasses up over his forehead.

  “Fine, thanks. How was your weekend?”

  “The wife’s sister came over which was good for her and bad for me.” His hand gesture suggested that they had talked quite a bit.

  “Anything interesting in there,” Bishop asked as he pointed to the newspaper that Jack had been reading when he walked in.

  “Same old. Same old. Congress is threatening to shut down the government … again.” He spoke without much emotion except frustration, reflecting the mood of many who were tired of the gridlock in Washington. “Those windbags in D.C. should take a lesson from them nuns. They know how to get things done.”

  It wasn’t often that he heard anyone praising the behavior of the sisters who ran the school like an oligarchy. He gave Jack a quizzical look, knowing that it wouldn’t take much prompting for him to elaborate.

  “They’re in a closed door meeting with Mary Ellen right now. My guess is that Friday’s payroll fiasco is topic numero uno.”

  Bishop refrained from making any comment and proceeded to prepare his tea.

  “Art Gleason is in there, too.” Gleason was serving as president of the school’s board of trustees this year.

  “In where?”

  “In that meeting, of course.” He added with a grin, “I’ll betcha something’s brewing in there, and it ain’t a cup of tea.”

  After wishing Jack a good day, Bishop left the faculty room and headed for the copy room where he could check his mail before heading up to his room. He didn’t have a very good feeling about that meeting. Three against one. What chance did Mary Ellen have with those odds? He hoped that she would be able to hold her own, but feared that this would not turn out to be a good day for Mary Ellen.

  ***

  As he passed the main office, he considered asking Terry if she had any idea about the purpose of that meeting. There wasn’t much that went on at Holy Trinity that Terry didn’t know or couldn’t find out. Unfortunately, several students were gathered in front of her desk, so he just waved a morning greeting and kept on walking. He peeked in the open door of Ron’s office, but he wasn’t there. Jack hadn’t mentioned whether or not Ron was in that closed-door meeting. Bishop hoped not. What could be more awkward for Ron than to sit in on a meeting in which his girlfriend was likely being raked over the coals for the botched payroll?

  When he arrived at the copy room, he encountered someone clearly confused as to the operation of the copier.

  “Good morning,” Bishop said as he extended his hand. “I’m Michael Bishop. Looks like you need a little help with this machine.”

  “I certainly do,” he said as he gave Bishop a firm handshake. “My name is Blake Everett. I’m subbing for Sister Pascala for a couple of weeks.” Everett was in his mid-thirties. He was an inch or two taller than Bishop and looked as though he worked out regularly. The well-tailored suit and highly polished dress shoes seemed more appropriate for a business executive rather than a substitute Chemistry teacher. Perhaps he was simply trying to make a good first impression.

  Once Everett explained the copying job he wanted, Bishop showed him which buttons to press, and the machine started churning out the finished product.

  “I really appreciate your help. Everyone seems pretty busy this morning.”

  “Don’t hesitate to ask if you have any questions. I’m in 210, but the faculty here
is really a great group. I hope that you’ll enjoy your stay.”

  “Thanks. I’m sure I will.”

  Charlie Mitchell walked in, and Bishop introduced him to Everett, excused himself, and headed upstairs. He realized that the first bell would ring soon as the noise level in the halls had increased considerably. The Kia Sorento! All of a sudden, he realized that the new car in the faculty lot probably belonged to Blake Everett. Nice car. Nice clothes. He wondered why a man his age hadn’t yet secured a full-time position. Perhaps he preferred subbing, but the money wasn’t very good, and there were no benefits. Must be single. How else would he be willing to come down to Groveland for a couple of weeks? Bishop wondered where he was staying. Perhaps he had friends or family in the area. Otherwise, his lodging and meal expenses would certainly be more than his income. That idea bothered Bishop. Something didn’t add up, and it wasn’t just in terms of dollars and cents.

  ***

  Once his seniors entered the room and started making their discussion circle, Bishop was able to put aside all of his other concerns and focus entirely on the students and the material at hand. It was an ability for which he was extremely grateful. It also explained why Bishop was so determined to continue teaching long after others had retired.

  Although the class was still discussing William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury, he never knew exactly how the discussion would proceed. Much of that depended on what the students wanted to discuss. With eleven bright and motivated students such a teaching strategy worked well most of the time. As he pulled his old leather swivel rocker into the circle, he asked, “Any questions?”

  Faulkner’s novel was an extremely challenging work, but one that the veteran English teacher believed was an appropriate challenge for students at this level. Even with his 9th graders, he always stressed the idea that it was often more important to ask good questions than it was to have all the answers. After giving them a moment to look over their notes and gather their thoughts from the discussion of the previous week, one of the girls raised her hand.