She drew back and selfishly redirected her comments. “Tell Dr. MacJames what she means to you? Tell me!” She playfully spun on top of Mitchelli and straddled his legs, wrapping him in the blanket. “Look into my eyes Cary, and tell me how much I mean to you.” MacJames hesitated, then looked into his glistening eyes. “My, Cary Grant. I can read you--I could from the start. The more time I spend with you the faster I can understand what’s going on inside your mind. I know you’re madly in love me, and you’ve never told me. I know it’s only been a short time, and well, maybe I’m desperate--we barely know each other. Don’t torment yourself thinking I have to hear it from your lips; I can see it in your eyes, thank you.”
Mitchelli looked at her face, studying it, memorizing every detail. “I don’t want to hurt you when I go supernova. You should get as far away from me as possible. I can’t have you and my kids…”
“No way, give it up buddy. How many times have we gone over this? I have a tiger by the tail and I’m not letting it go. So get used to having me around, Secretary Stuart’s orders to boot; it’s part of your official contract.” MacJames rubbed her nose to Mitchelli’s and he smiled, never taking his eyes off her face. She held his hands behind her back. “So how about you tell me about that dream you just had.” She clamped his lower lip with hers, giving it a slight playful tug.
“Oh my God, my worst nightmare ever—middle-aged fornication, it was scary.” Mitchelli returned the lip play.
She leaned back laughing and almost fell off his lap. She placed her hands on either side of his face. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
***
Mitchelli dropped MacJames off at her house. He headed home to see his children off to school and check out the security team. MacJames had packed a bag for several days on the boat. Her intent was to stay by Mitchelli as much as possible. The more time she spent with him, her peculiar addiction for him grew. But she had to follow her qualified instincts, thus she rushed to Mitchelli’s Junior Varsity football coach Randy Johnson’s house in Harris Hill, a small hamlet in Clarence. MacJames had an appointment for ten o’clock under the premise she was doing an article for the Clarence Bee, the townie newspaper.
As she drove to Harris Hill her mind wondered to the events of the previous evening, bringing intermittent smiles to her face. Other than the nightmare, the evening out and romance on the boat had been wonderful. There was no doubt in her mind Mitchelli enjoyed being with her, but was it as much as she did with him? She would work on him like an onion, peeling away the layers one at a time until he would open up to her, truly trusting her with his emotions. As she drove across Amherst into Clarence, she debated whether to contact Dr. Rubin or someone in Mitchelli’s family regarding his consistent nightmares. It would have to wait until after her interview with Coach Johnson. She had to run downtown to meet with Task Force E for an update and review the surveillance detail covering Mitchelli’s children.
She pulled off Main Street into mature subdivision of Vernon’s Lane. She parked her car in the street in front of the small Cape Cod with its blue siding and black roof. The yard and house were impeccably maintained, typical of a senior citizen with too much time on his hands. She walked up to the door and rang the bell. A man in his late sixties answered the door. His thin body was worn from years of sports and he walked with a slight limp. His ears were bent, his face scarred as though he had spent years in a boxing ring or had once been mauled on a wrestling mat. His hair was quite thin, but neatly combed. He wore penny loafers, black pants, and a red pull over shirt. Red and black were the Clarence High School colors.
“You must be MacJames from the Bee; come in and have a seat, I just made some coffee. We’ll sit at the dining room table.” The coach acted genuinely pleased to see MacJames.
She pushed the charm. “Coach Johnson,” she said, “it was so sweet of you to grant me an interview on short notice.”
“Please honey, call me Coach Randy--only my players called me Coach Johnson.” The coach was proud of his years shaping young athletes and did not want to give up his title. He walked her to the dining room table where the coffee pot and mugs were set up. It was obvious the coach was excited to be interviewed, retired and past his prime. “So, tell me Ms. MacJames, what players were you interested in? I have several who made it to the NFL and five who played in the Canadian football league. Thirty percent of my boys went on to play college football, many with scholarships.”
MacJames took a digital tape recorder the size of a Dictaphone and a steno pad out of her purse. “Well Coach, the player I was interested in was Peter Mitchelli.”
“Who!” The coach was confused, shocked to hear the name.
“Peter Mitchelli, I believe you may have coached him in early eighties. He--” MacJames was quickly interrupted.
“Out of all the athletes I’ve coached and shaped into athletic machines, all county players, you’re here for Mitchelli? He was no athlete, no star. What paper are you with anyways, Miss? You look to old to be just a Bee reporter; those girls are much younger, just out of college working for peanuts. You’re a looker--don’t get me wrong, but you’re too damn old, and your car’s too nice.”
“Coach, I am doing an article on Peter Mitchelli, you know a Where-are-they-now? piece. I’m trying to learn more about the owner of Mitchelli Construction in his early years. We like old players who have businesses in the area because they’ll buy advertising when the articles are released. I’m interviewing several other players at other schools, of course whom also own businesses.”
“Well, it kind of makes sense,” he said.
“Did you coach Peter Mitchelli?” She was concerned her assistant had made a mistake with her research and she was meeting with the wrong coach.
Coach Randy seemed shocked and somewhat annoyed. He had wanted to brag about his star athletes, how he had molded them into real football players, not Peter Mitchelli who had quit after his sophomore year. “Well, Ms. MacJames, Peter Mitchelli was a player, certainly not an athlete, but the kid did have heart. He never moved too well, side line to side line. Is he in some kind of trouble? I’m not going to say anything to get that boy in trouble.” The coach laughed, “If my wife was alive she’d be squawking in the background, ‘boys they’re men now not boys.’ Is he in trouble?”
“No, Coach Randy, of course not I’m trying to--” She was distracted by the coach who abruptly stood.
“Miss, I asked what paper you worked for, and you’re dancing around the question. Mitchelli was no athlete, now either you show me some identification or you can get the hell out of my house. I’m too old to throw you out, but I’ll sure give it the old college try.” His fist supported him as he leaned over the table, in a goal line stance. MacJames took her identification out of her purse.
“Coach Randy, I’m Assistant Deputy Director with the FBI, Angela MacJames, I’m currently working on an investigation for the Department of Homeland Security.” The coach’s jaw opened, he stood straight, and immediately sat down. “I’m sorry for the ruse, but it is important to our investigation to draw as little attention as possible. I must if inform you that by federal law if you divulge any information regarding my presence here, my questions or our topic of discussion, you will be prosecuted as a spy, a traitor to the United States government, and the full force of our prosecution will come down on you like a brick house.” MacJames was in a hurry, she did not want the old man to have a heart attack but wanted him to get the point. Tell me what you know old man, I need to get downtown.
“Is Peter in trouble?” The coach asked with genuine concern, “Mitchelli didn’t kill someone, did he? He’s a good man, I mean he was a good boy.”
“I cannot answer that without divulging information regarding the federal investigation.” Her game face was on; she was all business now. “Did you coach Peter Mitchelli?”
The coach’s shoulders shrugged as he stared at his tabletop. “He was my biggest failure as a coach,” he said. “I had s
o many successes. I was so excited to have a chance to talk to you about them, reliving the past, my zenith. I mean when I thought you were really a reporter… Yes. I tried to coach Peter Mitchelli and failed.”
MacJames asked him directly, “Why did you fail?” She showed no sympathy for the old coach.
“Mitchelli had heart, not much talent. See most of the kids on the team don’t have enough talent to take them to the collegiate level. Mitchelli was one of those average kids. To get the most out of a player, a coach has to inspire his players, push them to try harder than they ever thought possible, for their team, school, parents, or to avoid embarrassment. Mitchelli had the heart of a lion, a killer lion. At the start of one game, I had to push Mitchelli, strike a nerve in him to play beyond his abilities. I tapped into that killer instinct. You know a coach can be many things, but a great coach must be a motivator; Vince Lombardi was the best at that. I’d push the kids’ buttons, embarrass them in front of their teammates in effort to get them to play harder. One game I pushed all of Mitchelli’s buttons, in just the right sequence, and he turned the game around like I’ve never seen any player do before. He became a killer.”
“Coach, what do you mean by killer, isn’t that a term you use in football all the time?” MacJames softened her tone.
“Kill the running back! We’re going to kill that team!” The coach shouted, “Let’s slaughter the bums! Yes, it’s a term, a phrase we use as a metaphor. Except in the case of Mitchelli; Jesus Christ, we were worried he was going to kill the damn quarterback on the field.”
“Kill a player! Do you mean just hit him hard, tackle him until the snot runs out of his nose?” MacJames raised her voice as she asked.
“Pretty good, Miss--Special Agent…I mean hit the other guy so hard, so fast, so many times you’re going to kill him. Break his neck, snap it like a twig; driving your helmet in the small of his back, breaking his ribs, rupturing his liver. Oh, it’s happened; we only see the replays on the professional or college teams. I should have pulled him out of the game. I was a fool, a young fool. He was on a mission, possessed. If Mitchelli had any athletic ability he would have killed someone. He had no coordination, he was great moving goal to goal, front to back, but wasn’t worth a damn left to right; I think his feet were two small.” The coach was drifting off topic. He looked into her eyes and appeared to become remorseful. “Ma’am, don’t get me wrong, he was a good kid. A kid a parent would be proud of, good grades, well liked, I don’t think he ever got into trouble. You know, he used to kiss his father hello and good-bye in front of the whole team. No one mocked him, ya know, or teased him for being a sissy or a queer. I don’t think he would have cared if they did.”
She played dumb. “Coach, can you remember what left you with the impression Mitchelli was a killer?”
“We were playing Amherst, and their quarterback ran a great option play. Mitchelli was our strong side defensive end. I put him on strong side so the wingback could cover the screen pass or short tight end dump passes--like I said, he was great head-on, but couldn’t cover a receiver worth a damn. Well the quarterback kept faking Mitchelli out with the pitch option, and Mitchelli would hesitate just long enough for the quarterback to cut and run up field or pitch the ball to the running back. Either option, Mitchelli hesitated just long enough to take himself out of the play. I was so pissed, from the sidelines it looked like he didn’t want to hit anyone. He looked like a damn pansy. Boy, was I wrong. I should have known the boy was just confused, overly cautious. We never practiced the option that week, damn Amherst coach sandbagged us with that one. I called a time out, went into the huddle, and pushed Mitchelli’s buttons. I wanted him to hit that quarterback whether he pitched the ball or not.”
MacJames leaned forward. “So what happened? Did he hit the quarterback?” she already knew the answer from Mitchelli himself.
“At first I was tickled to death. Man, he creamed the quarterback. Mitchelli going head on was a maniac, great pass rusher, not worth a damn side-to-side, maybe he had too much ear fluid or something. Anyway he laid that quarterback on his back whether he kept the ball or not.”
“Coach, I don’t have a lot of time,” MacJames snapped. “So, what’s the big deal? He did what you wanted, right?”
The coach’s eyes began to tear up. “They stopped running the option, but he kept hitting the quarterback, sometimes he tackled the running back first, knocking him flat on his back, and kept running and plastered the quarterback before the ref could blow his whistle. No one had ever seen it before. At first, the ref didn’t know if it was a penalty--you can’t call roughing the passer; the damn quarterback wasn’t passing the ball. The first few hits, we all went crazy, his teammates went crazy. Everyone went crazy cheering him on; we hated Amherst. The kid was an animal. I think he sacked the quarterback four times. He timed it just right, when he didn’t sack him, Mitchelli hit just as he released the ball. The Amherst quarterback dirtied his shorts--he was so chicken shit he was running off the field so he wouldn’t get hit. One time, Mitchelli even knocked their coach flat on his ass trying to get to the quarterback on the sidelines. My God, I never saw anything like it.”
“Coach, why didn’t you pull Mitchelli out of the game, bench him? Coaches do that all the time--what were you thinking?” MacJames studied the coach’s expression; he was getting emotional.
“Miss, because he was doing exactly what I told him to do. Hit the quarterback every play whether he had the ball or not.” The coach’s voice cracked. “‘Hit him like you want to kill him!’ Like a fool, that’s what I said. Any other player would have hit the quarterback a couple of times and I would have been thrilled. Not Mitchelli, he played like he wanted to end the quarterback’s life and anyone else’s who got his way. We annihilated them; he turned the game around. To be honest, I was scared to death one of the kids were going to tell their parents what I said in the huddle.” The coach stopped to gather his thoughts. “I looked into Mitchelli’s eyes to congratulate him after the game and shake his hand. He was just a kid, my God, a boy, but his eyes, they were empty like a black hole, he looked beyond me like I wasn’t there. I saw that look with my friends who came back from Vietnam; they called it the thousand-yard stare. They were constantly looking for the enemy. Their friends were mutilated disemboweled gutted while they slept, scared the hell out of them, so they were constantly scanning the perimeter for signs of the enemy. My hands felt wet after shaking his, I thought he had just sweaty hands, then I looked at my palms they were covered with Mitchelli’s blood. He pounded his hands so hard on the other players’ helmets, hitting and clawing his way to get to the quarterback, he took skin off his knuckles. He couldn’t write for over a week. His body was so bruised his teammates nicknamed him black and blue death. I’m not a superstitious maim, but when I was looked into his eyes I saw death, a killer was on that field. I made him; I pushed his buttons. I pushed his buttons, I made him a killer.” The coach looked at MacJames. “My God, did he kill someone? It’s not his fault, I made him a killer--I made him, my damn ego ran away from me that day…My wife told me I was possessed with winning, it’s my fault!” The tormented elderly coach became an emotional wreck.
“Coach Randy, calm down he hasn’t killed anyone, stop blaming yourself for something that hasn’t happened. That game was thirty years ago. He went a little overboard playing football, it’s a game.”
“You weren’t there,” he said. “You never played. It went beyond a little too aggressive, I made a psycho that day and turned him lose on the field just so I could have another win on my record. He was a good boy before that game.” The coach muttered to himself as he stared at a photo of his wife on the wall. “Good boy, he was a good boy. Momma, I thought I was making him a better football player.” He looked away from his wife’s picture and stared into her eyes. “Agent MacJames, that was my job--to make football players out of kids, molding them into a team. I lost control of one of my players; I made him a killer. Peter Mitchelli was my res
ponsibility.”
“Coach, how was Mitchelli the rest of the season? Did he control himself or run amuck?” MacJames wanted to grab his hand to calm him down, but she restrained her unprofessional thoughts and did not.
The coach quickly got up from the table and walked to a large trophy case with glass doors with two long wood drawers below. The case held the career of a proud coach: trophies and photos of his players filled the cabinet. In a drawer below the glass shelves, the coach removed a manila folder and placed it front of MacJames as he sat down. The folder was labeled MITCHELLI, PETER: CLASS OF 1983. Inside were yearbook clippings, snapshots, and news articles of a young Peter Mitchelli and his high school sweetheart, Ann. “He was a good player--not great, but a solid defensive end. He never played football again after that season.”
MacJames quickly asked, “Did he kill anyone? Was he a good student, or a delinquent?”
“No.”
Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder Page 30