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

by Mike Markel

  “Help how?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Your father was distraught about the rape—as any father would be. But since it was a football player who did it, and since your father was such a supporter of Cougar athletics and so close to Mr. Davis …” I let it trail off.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that when your father is unhappy about something related to the football program, he goes to Carl Davis—and Mr. Davis tries to fix it.”

  “What does that even mean? How does Carl Davis try to fix a rape?”

  “You can’t fix a rape. But if a guy rapes his goddaughter—and that guy is a football player—maybe Mr. Davis can take some action to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”

  “You’re not saying Mr. Davis had Lake killed, are you? After all these years?”

  “I am definitely not saying that. I’m just answering your question about why your father might have told Mr. Davis about what happened—he was really upset and thought Mr. Davis might be able to help. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Personally, I preferred the theory that the football guys wanted to protect Lake because he was a great player. But that wasn’t giving us a good motive to kill him seven years later, once he was living in a homeless camp. So it was worth a shot to plant the idea that we were looking at Lake’s murder as revenge for the rape. I had no idea whether Alicia’s father still wanted Lake dead. And, if he did, I had no idea whether he would go to Carl Davis for assistance, or at least for approval. I didn’t know whether Alicia would take the theory to her father, and, if she did, whether he would deny he contacted Carl Davis and it would die there. If that happened, Alicia might conclude that I’m crazy or stupid or corrupt. I’d be okay with that. She wouldn’t be the first.

  But if there was any truth to the theory that Alicia’s father worked with Carl Davis to kill Lake for the rape, it wouldn’t take but a few minutes for the news to make its way to Carl Davis and then to Coach Baxter.

  Chapter 16

  “Help me understand what just happened in there,” Ryan said as we drove back to headquarters. “I thought we were working the theory that the football guys were protecting Lake because he was such a good player. Now you think maybe they had him killed?”

  “No, I don’t think that. But we believe Lake was murdered, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And we think Kendra delivered the drugs, but she didn’t know the drugs would kill him, right?”

  “Yes,” Ryan said.

  “We have no reason to think any of the other guys in the homeless camp put up the five-hundred bucks, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Every other suspect is related to the football program, one way or the other: Carl Davis, Coach Baxter, Alicia, her father. We know Alicia lies to us, and we know her father vowed to get Lake. It’s possible—just possible—that he waited until he got a chance.”

  “What would that chance look like?”

  “No idea,” I said. “Could be he found out Lake was living in the homeless camp. He stumbles on a way to use Kendra to deliver the heroin to Lake.”

  “How does he stumble on a way?”

  I don’t mind when Ryan asks me questions with sharp edges. It makes me think it through better. And if I can convince him what I’m saying is at least plausible, it helps both of us—and I feel less stupid. “He owns Weber Electric. He’s gotta have at least one employee who buys pot from a dealer in town. Weber catches this employee with the pot and comes up with the plan for killing Lake. He okays the plan with Carl Davis and presents it to the employee. They work out the logistics.”

  Ryan nodded. “Since nobody would think Ron Weber has anything to do with the dealer crowd—”

  “And since the rape occurred more than seven years ago,” I said, “who’s gonna suspect this hard-working business guy who does all the electrical work for the program?”

  “All right.”

  “Let’s go through the rest of them,” I said. “We know Coach Baxter spins everything. Given what we already know about his NCAA violations, and what Alicia told us about how he let Lake get smacked on the head as often as he wanted, it’s no stretch to say he’s a total douchebag who exploited his players for his own gain. And if he’s a total douchebag, maybe he’d be willing to help somebody solve a problem with a junkie dropout who nobody gives a shit about anymore.”

  “All right. Is Carl Davis a total douchebag, too?”

  “I’m not sure. He might be the benevolent grandfather of the program, like he says. Or he might be the guy who rigs the bids on the program’s facilities so that all the jobs go to his buddies.”

  “Which doesn’t make him a murderer.”

  “True,” I said. “But there’s enough people involved that his fingerprints aren’t gonna be on every decision. When he wants a problem solved, someone solves it—quietly.” I paused a moment. “You know, when I floated the idea to Alicia, I hadn’t quite thought it through, but talking to you now, I’m warming up to it. It’s someone in the football program—or in with them. Doesn’t matter if it was payback for something he did seven years ago or to keep him from doing something now that would hurt them. It’s someone in the football program.”

  We made it back to headquarters and carded our way in the rear entrance. As we set up at our desks, Ryan said, “I want to dig a little more into Coach Baxter. Can you give me an hour or two? We’ll talk around noon?”

  “That’s fine. I’ll bring the chief up to speed and spring Kendra.”

  Ryan settled in at his desk while I went to tell the chief we thought Kendra was being straight with us. He asked if we were willing to call it a homicide; I said we were. He told us to follow it where it led.

  I headed to Holding, logged the five-hundred dollars with Kendra Crimmons’s other property, and told them to release her. “Second thought,” I said to the sergeant, “let me have five minutes with her first.”

  The sergeant unlocked the cell door. Kendra was rocking back and forth on her concrete bed, hugging her knees.

  “Kendra, we’re gonna release you in a few minutes.”

  “It’s about fuckin’ time. Did you find the money?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Right where I said it would be?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you gonna give it to me, or did you lose it along the way?”

  As part of an effort to be less of a self-centered jerk, I try to see something good in everyone, especially the folks who have hit bottom, just like I once did. But Kendra wasn’t making it easy. “I just logged it in. It’ll be with your other stuff.”

  “Do I get some sort of payment for helping you out?”

  I put out my hands. “For telling us the truth? The second or third time we asked?”

  “I solved the case for you. Doesn’t that get me something?”

  “You didn’t solve any case, Kendra. You convinced us you didn’t kill Lake Williams—at least for the moment. But you didn’t tell us anything useful about the guys who hired you to deliver the heroin to him. Or anything useful about the guy in the pickup truck—”

  “What the fuck was I supposed to tell you about the truck?”

  “Some people, I don’t know, they would’ve noticed the color of the truck or glanced at the door to see if there was anything written on it. Some people might have looked at the license plate as it drove off—”

  “I told you, I don’t see good enough, and I lost my glasses.”

  “But the real thing you screwed up, Kendra, is you were in the tent with Lake, watching him die, and you didn’t call 911 or get one of the guys to help. What did you do while Lake was dying? You decided it must’ve been first-rate smack because of the way Lake responded, and you shot just a little, so it would get you off without killing you.”

  Kendra looked away. After a moment, she turned back to me and said, “Fuck you.”

  “Good point, Kendra. I’m gonna quote you when I write up that citizensh
ip award.”

  She was gazing at the wall behind me.

  “Listen, Kendra, I’ve contacted Human Services, with the city. They’re gonna reach out to you and see if they can get you some help with the drugs. If you don’t get on top of this, two weeks—a month, tops—we’re gonna find you just like they found Lake. Will you let them help you?”

  “You give me my five hundred, that’s all the help I need.”

  I turned and left her cell, closing the heavy door behind me, glad to be done with her. Back in the bullpen, I was surprised that Ryan wasn’t at his desk reading about Coach Baxter on the computer. I spent a little time talking with Harold Breen about changing the call to homicide. Then I did a little more paperwork on the case. I checked my watch: a quarter past noon. I called Ryan.

  “Karen.”

  “Ryan, what’s going on?”

  “I’m downstairs with Jorge. He’s helping me make up a file.”

  “What?”

  Jorge was our IT guy. He was always happy to help us with our cases. Apparently, that was more fun than teaching cops how to use a paperclip to open a stuck CD tray.

  “I found out some things about Coach Baxter, then a kid from the university dropped off the drive with the game films on it. I’m making up a file to show the coach. I’m going to need about another forty-five minutes. Do you mind contacting the football program and setting up another interview with him?”

  “Yeah, if he’s around,” I said.

  “Make sure he’s around. We need to see him. This afternoon. It’s a murder investigation.”

  “You telling me I can be obnoxious?”

  “This afternoon, Karen.” He ended the call.

  I didn’t know what he and Jorge were working on, but Ryan’s tone told me he was very unhappy with the coach.

  I phoned Helen, the office secretary, and made it clear that we would meet Coach Baxter in his office in one hour or we would bring him in to police headquarters to interview him. Helen got my point and said he would be pleased to make the time.

  Forty minutes later, Ryan returned to the detectives’ bullpen. His expression was somber and determined.

  “Everything okay, Ryan?”

  He didn’t say anything, but nodded a little.

  I looked at my watch. “We’ve got an interview set up with Coach Baxter in eleven minutes. You got that file you want to show him?”

  Ryan tapped his jacket pocket.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “All right, then.”

  I’ve been Ryan’s partner about three years. One of his best traits is his cheerfulness. I count on it. But a couple times a year, something inside him snaps. This, apparently, was one of those times.

  On the drive over to campus, Ryan looked out the side window, motionless and silent. I turned the radio on. We arrived at the football complex and headed toward the building with the big cougar above the door. Ryan hung his detectives’ shield around his neck. I pulled mine out of my bag and put it on, too.

  The girl at the reception desk recognized us from yesterday and gave us a smile and waved us on. We took the stairs to the third floor. I stuck my head in the office. Helen told us the coach was in room 314.

  The sign on the door said Conference Room. I knocked. A big guy, maybe thirty-five years old, opened the door. There were about eight guys, all about the same age, some black, some white, all big, sitting around an oval-shaped conference table. They all looked up at us. Coach Baxter rose from his chair. “Would you excuse us, guys? I’ll get back to you.” The men gathered their identical tablets and filed out of the room, nodding to us as they passed.

  The coach gestured for us to sit. We took our places across the wooden table. “How can I help you?” He looked at me, expressionless.

  Ryan spoke. “Coach Baxter, we’re here to talk to you about the Lake Williams case. We’ve determined it’s a homicide.”

  The coach frowned. He was quiet for a few seconds. “That is unbelievable.”

  Ryan didn’t reply.

  “What happened? I mean, do you know how he died?”

  “As we told you yesterday, he died from heart failure after injecting some uncut heroin. We know that an associate of his was paid five-hundred dollars to deliver the heroin to Lake. He injected it and died almost instantly.”

  “But you don’t know who paid the associate.”

  “That is correct. But this investigation is now officially a murder case.”

  “How can I help?”

  “We want to talk with you a little bit more about Lake and about your tenure here at CMSU.”

  “Are you seriously thinking I had something to do with killing him?” He started picking at a thumbnail.

  Ryan stared at Coach Baxter for the longest time. “We’re pursuing a number of theories of who might have wanted to kill him. At this point, these are only theories, and we are certainly not accusing you of anything. But just to be perfectly clear, this is not a friendly chat or a courtesy call. It is an official police interview. You need to be honest and forthcoming with us. If at any time we determine that you are not being honest and forthcoming, we will take you into custody and charge you with obstruction of justice and any other crimes we believe you have committed. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  Yesterday Andy Baxter was the smiling, diplomatic head football coach. Today he was stone-faced and wary. “Yes, I do.”

  “All right. Let’s begin. The athletic director here at Central Montana State University is John Freedlander. When did you first meet Mr. Freedlander?”

  Ryan’s gaze was steady. I didn’t know the answer to the question, and I had no idea why he asked it.

  “I first met John Freedlander in 1993.”

  “What were the circumstances?”

  “He was the head football coach at Southwest Missouri.”

  “And you were …?”

  “I was a freshman at Southwest Missouri. I was a player.”

  “You played one year, transferred to USC and sat out a year, and then continued your college career there as a quarterback. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know when Coach Freedlander left Southwest Missouri?”

  “That same year.”

  “Do you know the circumstances of his leaving?”

  “Not in any detail. He and the university wanted to go in different directions.”

  “Do you know if Southwest Missouri incurred any NCAA penalties for violations in the years leading up to John Freedlander’s decision to leave?”

  “I was a freshman. I wasn’t involved in anything like that.”

  Ryan nodded. “In fact, the program was charged with a number of major violations and incurred some significant penalties. If you look on YouTube today, you will see the video of John Freedlander giving an interview to one of the local TV stations. Do you know what I’m referring to?”

  Coach Baxter paused a few beats. “Coach Freedlander had been under intense pressure for some weeks. He lost his cool that day and said some things he probably shouldn’t have said.”

  “Such as the comment about how he didn’t mind at all being paid by two different universities at the same time?”

  “That’s right.” Coach Baxter’s hands were balled into fists on the tabletop.

  “What was Coach Freedlander referring to?”

  “He had just been released from Southwest Missouri, but he had two more years left on his contract.”

  “And he had just accepted a new position. Therefore, his statement referred to the fact that he would be paid by Southwest Missouri for two more years, as well as by his new employer.”

  “That happens all the time in college athletics.” Coach Baxter’s tone was clipped; he was working hard to keep his temper under control. “In professional sports, too.”

  “I know that, Coach Baxter. I’m just wondering why, yesterday, when we asked you about why you moved from Arkansas here to Central Mont
ana, you didn’t mention that you played under the man who is now athletic director here.”

  “It was one year. I was eighteen years old. I didn’t see the relevance.”

  “That’s interesting. I would have expected you to say you played for Coach Freedlander for only one year but that you had good memories of that experience. That you looked forward to working with him here as athletic director because you learned a lot from him when you were just starting out as a college player. But instead you said, ‘I was eighteen years old,’ as if you were caught smoking dope.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Detective. John Freedlander was an excellent coach then, and he’s an excellent athletic director now. I have learned a lot from him. You’re taking my words out of context.”

  “Okay.” Ryan nodded. “Glad we’ve cleared that up.” Ryan stared at Coach Baxter, who held his gaze. I couldn’t tell if the coach knew he’d just given up some points.

  “Let’s go on,” Ryan said. “I want to thank you for putting the game films on the memory stick for me.” Ryan removed the stick from his jacket pocket and stood up. In the middle of the conference table was a USB port that looked like a golf ball half-buried in the tabletop. Ryan slid the drive into the port. “I made up a little file.” He pointed to the glass tabletop where Coach Baxter was sitting. Beneath the glass was a computer keyboard. “I want to show you that file. Would you mind if I sit where you are?”

  Chapter 17

  Coach Baxter’s jaw was thrust out, but he said nothing as he stood and walked away from his position at the computer in the conference room.

  Ryan settled into the chair and looked down at the keyboard under the glass to orient himself to the system. He glanced over at Coach Baxter, who was standing a few feet off to the side, his arms folded across his chest. “You might want to sit down, Coach Baxter. This will take a few minutes.” The coach walked to the side of the table and took a chair as far as possible from both me and Ryan.

  Ryan had just accused Coach Baxter of trying to hide information by not telling us he played for the current athletic director, John Freedlander, more than twenty years ago. And he had suggested that Baxter’s decision to come to Central Montana might have been strongly influenced by the fact that Freedlander was a crooked coach and would be a crooked athletic director—or at least know when to turn his back and let the new football coach do whatever he wanted. But right now, it looked like the thing that pissed off the coach the most was Ryan asking to sit in his chair.