Players: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery (Book 7)

by Mike Markel

  “Mr. Davis,” I said, “we’re really sorry we upset you with that information—and the death of Mr. Williams. But just to be absolutely clear: You can’t help us with any information on his drug overdose?”

  “To be perfectly honest with you, I didn’t even hear about that death. Was it in the paper? On the news?”

  “No, it hasn’t been made public yet. We haven’t completed the autopsy. We need to be able to say whether it was a suicide, accident, or foul play.”

  He leaned in toward me. “Do you think it might have been foul play?”

  “We don’t have enough information at this point. Like I said, the autopsy will tell us how he died. Anyway, Mr. Davis, we want to thank you for taking the time to talk with us. Sorry to tell you this bad news.” I swept my arm out to take in the practice field. “You’ve got a beautiful facility here. Congratulations on that.”

  Carl Davis looked all of his eighty-four years now. His posture had slumped a little, and the tremor in his hand was fluttering the leg of his slacks. “I’m very sorry to learn of Mr. Williams’s death. Very sorry, indeed.”

  Ryan said, “One more thing, Mr. Davis. Do you know if there are any players from Mr. Williams’s time who are on staff here?”

  Carl Davis took a deep breath and gazed at the ceiling again. “Seven or eight years ago,” he said. Then he looked out at the practice field. His eyes lit up. “You see that man setting up the sled over there?” He pointed down the field. “That’s Max Thomas. He’s a defensive backs coach.”

  “You think he knew Mr. Williams?” Ryan said.

  “I think he was Lake’s roommate.”

  “Mr. Davis,” I said, “thank you again. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Certainly more helpful than he realized—or intended.

  Chapter 10

  Carl Davis collected himself and started walking slowly toward the guy from Weber Electric, the one he had been talking to when Ryan and I interrupted them.

  My partner and I headed toward the wall of the practice facility. I picked up the grip on one of the battle ropes coiled on the floor, but my hand was too small to encircle it.

  “Make it dance,” Ryan said. “Go ahead.”

  I tried to pick it up, but I could barely lift it off the ground. “What the hell?”

  Ryan raised an eyebrow. “Now picture one in each hand.” He pantomimed the up-and-down motion of lifting two ropes high enough to get them to slap on the ground. “You rattled that nice eighty-four-year-old gentleman, you know.”

  “Thank you. He doesn’t remember LaKadrian Williams but seems to remember he was called Lake.”

  “And that Max Thomas was his roommate? I’m having trouble remembering my roommate’s name, and I lived with him for a year.”

  “Explain how he was telling the truth.” I put down the heavy rope.

  “It’s possible he’d forgotten Lake. Like he said, he’s met thousands of players.”

  “We never called him Lake. We called him LaKadrian.”

  Ryan shook his head. “That’s not a giveaway. Everything about LaKadrian is stored deep in Carl Davis’s long-term memory. It’s locked away until someone opens it. Then, all the details come back, including his nickname.”

  “And the fact that he roomed with Max Thomas?”

  “Again, possible. If something memorable happened involving those two players, yes, it’s possible.”

  “‘Memorable’ as in Lake rapes Alicia Weber, so the football staff—with the full knowledge of Carl Davis—decides to cover it all up because he’s a franchise player?”

  Ryan stood there, looking down at the turf, his hands in his pants pockets. I heard a rumbling sound and felt the turf start to shake. Then I felt a breeze coming down from the ceiling. It was the big HVAC system turning on.

  “Well?”

  He took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Possible.”

  “If that’s what happened, all that stuff Carl Davis just told us about how he didn’t know anything about a rape—”

  “And how seriously the staff takes rape—”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Bullshit. One-hundred percent.”

  Ryan looked at me. “We don’t know that. We can’t say the whole staff took rape casually. I’m willing to bet they follow rigorous protocols for all their athletes, all their sports. Even seven or eight years ago, every athletics program at every college and university was all over the Title IX provisions. And all the NCAA regs. When I was at BYU, we sat through endless orientation sessions. They gave us the notebooks, and we had to show we’d studied them.”

  “Which supports my point. Schools have to document how they’ve made good-faith efforts to prevent or punish any abuses. But if a school gets caught violating Title IX or committing a major NCAA reg—they come in major and minor, right?—”

  Ryan nodded.

  “If they get caught,” I said, “the program could be in deep shit. So, even if they tried their hardest to punish the bad behavior, they still could face a lot of serious penalties, couldn’t they?”

  “Yes.” Ryan held my gaze. “Fines. Lost scholarships. Forfeited victories. Ineligibility to play post-season.”

  “There’s the motive to cover up the bad behavior. I’m not saying it happened. I’m just saying it’s a possibility. Lake rapes his girlfriend—”

  “Maybe he did.”

  “Lake rapes Alicia. At the hearing on campus, Alicia’s father goes batshit, maybe says some racist things because he’s not all that thrilled his little girl is screwing a black kid from LA or wherever. The football staff steps in, spreads some money around. All of a sudden, Ronald Weber falls into line, and Alicia withdraws her allegation. All for the good of the team. They tell Lake’s roommate to keep his mouth shut and everything will work out for him.”

  Ryan frowned. “You saying they gave Max a job in exchange for his silence?”

  “No idea,” I said. “Max could’ve blown the whole thing up—but he didn’t. So when he comes around, years later, looking for a staff job, they help him out. Listen, I never heard of the guy until two minutes ago. But if guys sometimes rape girls, despite the best intentions of the athletics program or the university—or their church or God, whatever—and if those rapes became public they could screw things up royally for those programs or the university, that’s the motivation to get everybody behind the same story.”

  “Okay, I get that. So what do you want to do with Max Thomas?”

  “I want to talk to him about his old roommate. See if he remembers him.”

  Ryan wasn’t happy but he nodded. We started to walk over toward Max Thomas, who was leaning in, pushing a two-man sled across the turf toward the middle of the field.

  “How heavy is that thing?” I said.

  “Couple hundred pounds,” Ryan said. “Five hundred when the offensive line coach climbs up onto it.”

  When Max Thomas saw us approach, he straightened up and glanced at the shields around our necks.

  “Good morning,” I said to him and introduced me and Ryan.

  Max Thomas gave us a smile, told us his name, and we all shook hands. “How can I help you?” He was a good-looking man of about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, tall and beefy. His “Property of CMSU” grey gym shirt showed off a well-muscled torso. A thin sheen of perspiration covered his copper skin. His hair was cut short, his goatee carefully trimmed.

  “Carl Davis gave us your name. We’re investigating a case involving one of the football players,” I said. “Mr. Davis said you might be able to answer a few questions.”

  “Hope it’s nothing serious.” He looked a little concerned. “I’ll help you any way I can.”

  “We appreciate that. You’re a coach here, is that correct?”

  He nodded. “Defensive coach. I work mostly with the linebackers.”

  “Did Mr. Davis say you went to school here?”

  Max Thomas smiled. “I did—and I do. I got my BA in history education here. Taught history and coached high school
for six years, then was offered a position here. Actually, it’s a graduate assistantship. I’m going for an MA in educational administration and doing the coaching.”

  A couple of guys setting up equipment started fooling around. I looked up and saw a football go sailing past one guy’s head and knock over a cone. They started playfully yelling insults at each other.

  “That’s pretty good,” I said. “And when you get that degree, what kind of education are you hoping to administer?”

  He smiled broadly and tapped the sled. “This kind. My game plan is a career in college athletics. Step one: a full-time position on Coach Baxter’s staff.”

  “And work your way up?”

  “That’s it. Defensive coach, defensive coordinator, head coach.”

  Like most people, he seemed happy to talk about himself, so I kept going. “Why do you think Coach Baxter hired you?”

  “I keep asking myself that. I wasn’t a great player. I was a good player. Not good enough to play on Sundays—not even close—but I studied the playbooks, kept my nose clean, tried to be a positive influence in the locker room. When the coach learned I was interested in coming back for my graduate degree, he thought I might be a good fit.”

  “He likes former players, I guess.”

  “All coaches look for former players—if they can contribute. And Coach Baxter really stresses the importance of education. He’s up front with the guys about their football prospects. At a school like this, a player makes it to the NFL every ten, fifteen years—if that often. These kids are going to be working for a living, just like you and me. They’ve got to be prepared. That’s a big reason you see Carl Davis around here all the time. He’s kind of an example for Coach Baxter.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He got a degree—a real degree in a real field. Finance, I think it was. Started his own financial-services company, built it into a successful firm. Now, in his retirement, he does what he’s always loved: helping the programs here at the university. He’s active and alert. He’s up every morning at dawn, does a half-hour on the stair-stepper, and plans how he can stay busy doing good for the university and for Rawlings. That’s the message Coach Baxter wants the guys to hear; that’s the life he wants us to build for ourselves.”

  “Sounds like the coach has thought it through.” I paused a second. “Tell me about Lake Williams.”

  The smile slipped off Max Thomas’s face. “Lake? My old roommate?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Max Thomas shook his head. “I really liked Lake. We all did, in fact. He was the one who was going to break out.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He had the raw talent. The speed, the moves, the instinct.”

  Ryan spoke. “What was his position?”

  “Wide receiver. You see the pros doing this now—I mean, the one-handed grabs?—Lake used to do that all the time. In practice, out in the stadium.” He swept out his arm to take in the practice facility where we stood. “This place didn’t exist then. We did all our practices outside. It could be snowing, zero degrees. He’s be out there, short sleeves, making showboat catches.” Max paused and looked down at the artificial turf for a second. “Coach Baxter thought he had the ticket. We all thought that about him.”

  “But?”

  “It didn’t work out. First, he tore his ACL. Rushed the rehab, never got his speed back. Couldn’t pivot on that leg. He wasn’t the star he had been. And he wasn’t real big on going to classes. He got put on probation a couple times. When the coach benched him, that seemed to … I don’t know, he lost his motivation or something. Pretty soon, he lost his scholarship, dropped out.” Max Thomas shook his head and put out his palms in a gesture that said, What are you going to do?

  “Did you two stay in touch?”

  “For a while. My dad gave him a job in his tree-service business. You know, the guy who drags the branches over to the chipper? No skill, but my father gave him a buck more than minimum wage.”

  “How’d that work out?”

  “It didn’t. Lake was unreliable. Showed up late. Didn’t show up at all. Got into fights with the other guys. My dad’s tree guys, they’re highly skilled. A kid comes along, gives them attitude, he’s got to go. He lasted four or five months, which was a couple of months more than he would have lasted with anyone but my father.”

  “And that was the end of your relationship with Lake?”

  “That’s right. I tried reaching out to him, but his phone was disconnected, then I couldn’t track him down. I think he was evicted. No idea where he is now.” Max shook his head.

  “Tell me about the rape.”

  Max’s head pulled back. “What are you talking about?” His brows were tight. “What rape?”

  “Lake was seeing a girl, a white girl. They were pretty serious. This is while he was still on the team. Do you remember her?”

  Max closed his eyes, like he was trying to pull up a distant memory. “Wait a second. I think it was Alicia. I remember the name because my mom’s name was Alice. Yeah, that’s it: Alicia. She was a cheerleader, wasn’t she?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  He frowned. “And you’re saying Lake raped her?”

  “That’s what she accused him of. Doesn’t ring a bell?”

  “Never heard about that.”

  “He’s your roommate. And he never mentions a girl is accusing him of rape.”

  “I’m telling you, he never said anything about that to me.” He was silent a moment. “You know, it wouldn’t be the first time a girl accused a player of sexual assault. I’m not saying there aren’t sexual assaults. Just that sometimes the allegations aren’t true.”

  I nodded. “Any reason you think Alicia might’ve made it up?”

  “Lake didn’t talk to me much about his relationship with her. And, like I said, he never mentioned a rape charge. But Lake wasn’t exactly what I’d call good boyfriend material.”

  “For example?”

  “He liked girls. All the girls. There were maybe a dozen black girls on campus, if that many. Mostly student-athletes. You know, track and basketball. First semester here, he was out of control. He started going through them so fast the word got around. The ones who just wanted to party sought him out; the others avoided him. Pretty soon, he was making a name for himself on the field, getting more confident. He was in the school paper all the time, then in some national papers. You know, he’d never had any contact with white girls where he grew up. But they liked him here on campus, the cheerleaders especially. He met Alicia. But he wasn’t into commitment. You know what I mean? I don’t know what happened. Maybe she caught him fooling around behind her back. Maybe she got mad. A rape charge will get your attention.”

  “That could be it.” I nodded. “That’s probably it.” I turned to Ryan. “You got that photo?”

  Ryan pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and swiped to the head shot of Lake Williams on the steel autopsy table. He passed his phone to Max Thomas.

  When Max looked at it, his face contorted in pain. “What is this?”

  “Is that Lake?” I said.

  Max’s face was frozen. He couldn’t speak.

  “Is it?”

  Finally, he nodded, slowly and just a little. “It’s Lake. He’s changed, but it’s him.”

  I held out my hand, and Max Thomas handed me the phone. I passed it to Ryan. “We’d like you to come into headquarters later today and make a formal ID of the body. Would you be willing to do that?”

  Max stood there, staring off into the distance. “What happened to him?”

  “Not sure yet. We think he OD’ed.” I paused. “Did he take drugs that you know of? I mean, when he was a student?”

  “Pot, yeah. Most of the guys did. And the trainers had pain meds. When he had that ACL, I know he was on some pain meds for a while. Nothing else that I know of.”

  “We’re gonna have an officer contact you about coming in to make a formal ID, okay?”r />
  Max Thomas spoke in a low voice. “Of course. Whenever you need me.” He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, which was damp with perspiration. “I can’t believe this happened.”

  I nodded. “It happened. We’re sorry to have to tell you about it.” I handed him my card.

  Ryan and I thanked Max Thomas for talking with us. We started walking toward one of the big garage doors near the fifty-yard line that was open. We headed toward the Student Union to pick up some lunch.

  I said, “Remember, right at the start of the interview, when I said it was about a player?”

  “You mean, when he didn’t ask which one? Or what he had done? Then, at the end, when he looked at the photo, he didn’t ask when this happened, or where. He hasn’t seen Lake in years, doesn’t know where he lives,” Ryan said. “Who doesn’t ask those questions?”

  “Someone who already knows the answers?”

  Chapter 11

  The receptionist in the football complex—a different girl this time, but the same smile—phoned the main office to tell them we were here for our one o’clock appointment with Coach Baxter.

  “Let’s take the stairs,” I said to Ryan.

  “Because we took the elevator last time?”

  “No, because I want to talk to you.”

  “Okay.” We started up the stairs. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “I want to make sure we’re on the same page with this interview. We need to figure out why the coach took this job. You said you knew how to get him to talk, right?”

  “I said I knew what questions to ask. But that I have no idea if he’ll tell us the truth.”