by David Chill
"Why do you say that?" I asked, ignoring his wife.
"I think maybe Fowler had something on one of the coaches. Doing something he shouldn't."
"Like what?"
Wally looked back at me. "You said you were looking into fundraising issues. There's some funny things going on there. Skye raised a ton of money and it's not being spent. I'll bet Jason knew. I'll bet he had something on them."
I sighed to myself. Back to square one. I heard a phone begin to ring, and remarkably, one of the teenagers in the pool heard it, too. Pulling himself out, he sloshed water onto the cement and raced over to pull the phone out of a green backpack. He was an exceptionally large kid, another lineman undoubtedly, and his belly jiggled as he moved. He spoke into the phone and then his mouth opened and his facial expression froze for a few seconds. He spoke quietly into the phone and then put it down.
"Hey, guys," he yelled. "Hey. Knock it off. Quiet down. You got to hear this."
"What? You gonna eat another two pizzas by yourself today?" one of them yelled.
"No, you idiot. Shut up. That was Will, he's at the hospital."
"What happened?" Dash asked, and the group grew quiet.
"It's Noah."
"What about Noah? They rule it a concussion?"
"Not that. He was rushed to the E.R. last night. Noah swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills."
Chapter 8
There is something very impressive about the architecture of modern hospitals, and Huntington Memorial was no exception. Whether it was the arched steel-and-glass frame lining the exterior entranceway or the soaring magnificence of the glass-lined atrium which served as a lobby, an extraordinary amount of care and money had been invested in offering hospital visitors the feeling they were entering into a shining beacon of hope. No expense had been spared when it came to presenting the grandiose shrine to modern medical care. If someone needed to visit a patient at Huntington Memorial today, they were left with the comforting feeling that the person would be looked after quite well.
I went up to the fourth floor, and it didn't take long to see the crowd congregating around Room 416. A group of a dozen middle-aged folks, along with a similar number of teenagers, loitered nervously about the hallway. As I approached, a nurse in dark blue scrubs came by and informed everyone they needed to head to the waiting room. They were blocking the medical personnel from moving freely down the hallway, and what's more, Noah Greenland wasn't taking visitors right now.
As we entered the waiting room, small groups began to form. I approached a nice-looking couple, who had not yet engaged anyone in conversation. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, and wore a golf shirt and khakis; the woman was pretty and wore a sundress. They looked like any other successful, suburban, middle aged parents. I smiled sadly at them and said hello. They proffered an odd look in return.
"Have you heard anything about Noah's condition?" I asked.
"Yes," the man replied after a moment's pause. "He's stable. Looks like he's going to pull through. I guess they got him here quickly and pumped his stomach. He'll be okay."
"Good to hear," I said.
"Do we know you?"
"I'm sorry, no," I said and flashed my fake gold shield. The couple's posture stiffened, and their facial expressions became more serious. They introduced themselves as Buzz and Talley Kingston.
"My name is Burnside. I'm doing an investigation here. Maybe you could help."
"I'm not so sure," Talley Kingston said tentatively. "We only know what everyone else here knows."
"Which is?" I asked officiously.
"Well," Talley began, "we heard Stacy went to check on Noah after he said he was going to bed last night. I guess she tends to baby him. She saw an empty bottle of Dalmane, and put two and two together. They couldn't wake Noah up, so they called an ambulance and rushed him here. Like Buzz just said, he's going to pull through. Frankly, I think the parents are in worse shape. Bob and Stacy are beside themselves now. All that worry. I know I'd be frightened out of my mind if it had been Will."
"Does Will play football?"
"Yes, of course. Everyone here is a parent of a player. It's sort of a cult. Or a clique, I guess."
"So you know the Greenlands well."
"Somewhat. Why?"
"Just wondering," I said. "You never know. Let me ask you something. This had to have been quite a shock, right?"
They looked at each other. "Well, I suppose," Buzz said haltingly. "It never struck anyone that Noah was happy. Except when he was out on the football field. Our son, Will plays linebacker. He told us Noah's a different kid when he's playing. More confident, more sure of himself. It's like his troubles get to stay on the sidelines, and he can put them out of his mind for a while."
"Troubles?"
"Oh," he said. "I don't want to go too into this. It's been a terrible week."
"This is part of a criminal investigation," I reminded him, not bothering to add that the police at one point were considering me as a person of interest in the murder case. "It's related to what happened at the school last week. It's serious. I need to know everything."
"Yes, yes, I suppose. Well, his parents, you know, Bob and Stacy, they're not exactly the most loving couple. You know what they say. Best thing a dad can do for his kids is to love their mother. Gives them a sense of being grounded. Noah never had that. Will used to go over to their house a lot when Noah first came to the school a couple of years ago, they had been friendly. But he said Noah's parents were arguing all the time, and their bickering was just too much. It affected the kids' friendship. Will stopped going there."
"I think it affected a lot of friendships for Noah," Talley jumped in. "Bob's a piece of work."
"How so?"
They glanced at each other again. Talley spoke. "Oh. He made a pass at me once. I declined and gave him a lecture on being appropriate. For his son's sake. He just laughed and said he'd move on to the next one. Just like that. Can you imagine?"
Buzz Kingston looked down and shuffled his feet. "I'd heard they were having money problems. Bob's career's been on the skids. Being a private coach doesn't give much of a steady income stream. Maybe he has too much time on his hands. Anyway, I let it go. If he made a second pass at her, I'd have knocked his block off."
I took this in. "Bob's a big guy."
"I'm a big guy, too. Yeah, I know all about Bob Greenland's reputation when he was a coach. Beat up some parent a few years ago. But I served in the Air Force, I'm not scared of anything. Or anyone."
"Who was the parent?"
"Name was Stan Weekes. Took his kids out of the school, obviously, but he filed a lawsuit. Forced Bob out of coaching."
"I imagine that didn't sit well," I said.
"Serves him right. Bob's a hothead. Doesn't think before he acts. Obviously."
"So tell me. What was Bob's relationship like with his son?"
"Oh, man. Bob was busy planning out Noah's career for him. And his mother was always trying to psychoanalyze him."
I absorbed this for a moment longer than I wanted to. "Is Noah close to anyone at school now?"
"I don't think so. He used to be friends with Dash Farsakian and that crew. But they moved away from him. Probably for the same reason. I think he's close to a few teachers. Ms. Swain was his favorite."
"I've been trying to reach Mary Swain. I've heard she's on leave."
"No one seems to know," she said. "The school's funny like that. Sometimes a coach or a teacher will just stop being there. No reason given. They're just gone. It's almost like they've ceased to exist."
I took a breath and avoided making a crass comment about Jason Fowler. But I needed to raise the subject, and I needed their help. I needed anyone's help. The answer to this puzzle seemed right in front of me, and yet hiding in plain sight.
"I need to bring up a difficult subject. Jason Fowler. I know it's a tough thing to talk about."
"Of course," Buzz said.
"Do you know of anything that
was going on with Mr. Fowler and one of his students?"
They both shook their heads. "No. Why?" Talley asked.
"There's been a suggestion he may have had an inappropriate relationship with someone."
"Oh?"
"Has your son mentioned anything about this?"
"No, not necessarily."
"I'm not sure I understand," I said, leaning forward. "Not necessarily?"
"Well, I don't know for certain. But I do know our son mentioned Dash was ticked at Mr. Fowler about something. Might have been a girl. Dash used to go out with this cute little thing. What was her name, Buzz?"
I leaned in further. "Was it Vicki?"
"Yeah. Vicki. Vicki Sailor. I honestly don't know what was going on there. But something was."
*
I drove to the condo where Vicki Sailor lived, but no one answered when I buzzed the intercom outside the security gate. I went back to the Starbucks on Lake Avenue, and sipped on an iced mocha frappuccino for a while as I worked my iPad, trying to settle on what to do next. Since I was already in Pasadena, I figured I should talk to someone. Anyone.
I found Mary Swain's home easily enough, property titles for homeowners are a matter of public record in California, and addresses are a breeze to find. So is the price they paid for their house, the purchase date, and the size of their mortgage. This sort of data had always been public; the Internet simply made it astoundingly easy for any nosy person to access.
Mary Swain lived in a small yellow bungalow with chocolate brown trim, the type of color combination that was all the rage about eighty-five years ago. That might well have been the last time it had received a fresh coat of paint as well. The house was situated a few blocks north of Colorado Boulevard., the street which served as the main artery for the Rose Parade each year. I had actually been on Mary Swain's block once, but that was many years ago. A fellow LAPD officer hosted a New Year's Eve party, one which turned into a sleepover for those who wanted to stay on and go watch the parade in person the next morning. Of course, by the time most of us were ready for sleep, the sun was practically coming up. We turned on the TV, calculated when the parade was a block away, and walked down in time to see the colorful floats and the marching bands. I meant to come back and view the parade again, one of a myriad of things I keep planning to do and never quite get around to doing. But now that Marcus was getting old enough to appreciate it, I thought we might take him this year. It would also serve as a nice birthday present. He was born on January 1st.
I rapped on the front door, and it opened quickly. A spry, slender woman in her 50s looked up at me. She was wearing a gray t-shirt, faded jeans, and tennis shoes. Her hair was silver and short.
"Ms. Swain?"
"Yes?"
"The name's Burnside," I said and handed her my card. "May I come in?"
She looked at my card and then back at me. "What can I do for you?"
I licked my lips. "I've been asked to do an investigation into improprieties regarding the St. Dismas football team. There've been some financial issues. I thought you might be able to provide some perspective."
"Well," she said, opening the door and ushering me in. "By all means. And call me Mary."
I entered her living room, which was small, but neat. A throw rug, a couple of chairs, and a small couch filled up most of the room. What was most noticeable was the bookshelf, which took up an entire wall, stretching across the whole room, filled with books from floor to ceiling. I walked over and started browsing. Lots of biographies, books on American history, some historical novels, a mixture of hardcover and paperback. When you examine someone's bookshelf, you learn an awful lot about the person. I recalled being back in Principal Mularkey's office a few days ago. It was quickly obvious the principal's books were a prop, placed there just for show, never having been cracked open. Perhaps they had been shelved for future reading, but often they were there to simply impress. All of the books on Mary Swain's bookshelf, however, had the unmistakable seal of wear, spines broken, ones that had not only been opened, but most likely read cover-to-cover.
"Looks like I'm indeed in the home of a history teacher," I said, walking back to a chair and sitting down. Mary Swain sat down across from me.
"Oh, yes. I love history. Loved teaching it and loved learning about it. In the summer, I'd plan my vacations around what books I'd been reading that year. In July, I went to Virginia. I had been reading a lot about the Civil War, so Bull Run and Appomattox were on my list, I wanted to see the battlefield and the courthouse. And while I was there, I went back to Monticello and Mount Vernon. I've been to those before, but you can never see them enough. Not in my opinion, anyway."
"Sounds like a nice vacation," I said.
"It was wonderful. I've been trying to get the school to organize some class trips back East. We used to do those every year, but there've been budget issues lately."
I raised my eyebrows. "Money problems at a private school?"
"No, not money problems per se. Just how the school is deciding to spend their money. That damn football team gets far too much in my opinion. Now what's this about financial improprieties?"
"Uh, yes. I've been hired to look into some missing funds. There was a large fundraiser this spring, and apparently the proceeds have disappeared."
"Someone pull a stick-up?" she smiled.
I smiled back. "No. But I've been asked to look into it. And when I started poking around, your name came up. Not in the sense that you had anything to do with it, of course. Only that you weren't a big fan of the football team."
"I'm not. I think football is dangerous to kids' health and a big distraction from their studies."
"You and my wife might get along," I said, suddenly wishing I hadn't. Football was becoming one of a number of thorny issues I noticed cropping up between Gail and me. We had spent some blissful years together, and I loved her deeply. Then we had Marcus, and as they say, kids change everything. I still loved her, but cracks were emerging in our smooth and shiny relationship. But this wasn't a topic I needed to bring up with a complete stranger and I kicked myself for doing so. A couple's problems should stay between the two of them. And maybe their therapist.
"You're a football fan, Mr. Burnside?"
"I'm afraid it's more than that," I said wryly. "I used to play football at SC. And I coached there for three years. I'm pretty tied to the game."
"And you still seem to have emerged with a sound mind. Congratulations."
"Look, Mary," I said. "I'm sure we'll disagree on some things. But I've been hired to try and find out what happened to the funds. And now I'm involved in that tragedy at the school this week. Whether the money's been spent on football or is lining someone's pockets, I'm wondering if there's anything you can share with me. Any path you can send me down. No nugget is too small right now."
Mary Swain sat back and rubbed her hands. "I'm not sure what to tell you. I've had a few dust-ups with those knucklehead coaches. Savich and his big goon, Underwood. I can't believe they'd be skimming money, though. They're idiots, not thieves. But they've always been asking for special treatment, letting kids take makeup tests because they missed class to go to a game, getting them excused for not handing in homework. Last May they crossed the line. They wanted me to give a passing grade to one of their players who flunked every exam he took. I refused. They said they needed to keep him eligible for football, that it was for the good of the school. I told Savich to go jump in a lake."
"How did he respond?"
"He doesn't care a whit about those kids. Just wants to use them. To advance his own career. I even heard Savich is using one of the players to try and get himself a job coaching at a university. The idea that muttonhead could be working on a college campus turns my stomach."
Having known a lot of college football coaches, I can clearly state that few are ever confused with professors. While coaches can be as articulate and passionate as any academic, they often leave little doubt as to their goals. The
y are not on campus in the pursuit of knowledge, but rather, in the pursuit of victories.
"Do you mind if I ask who the player was?" I said, knowing the answer but wanting to make her comfortable enough so she'd feel as if she had the latitude to reveal more.
"I shouldn't say, but at this point, I don't think I owe that school anything."
"I have a funny feeling this relates to Noah Greenland."
"Yes. Of course it does. Damn shame, too. Kid is so bright, but he's disturbed as hell. Meticulous and sloppy at the same time. He doesn't need football. Football needs him. I thought I was able to get through to him last year. That he needs to make his own choices, not let others do so. That he should forget about football. Leave school with your skull intact."
"It isn't as bad as you're making it out to be," I pointed out.
"Oh, no?"
"Football builds teamwork and discipline. It shows you how you can achieve goals, even if they seem insurmountable. And one other thing. It's also fun."
"I don't think it was fun anymore for Noah," she said. "Maybe when he was younger, before the stakes got so big. Then his parents couldn't agree on whether he should even play football. That's part of his problem. Two parents and they can't agree on a thing. They say opposites attract, but those two are a good argument for how that kind of a marriage can turn into a colossal failure."
"How do you come to know all this?" I asked.
"I take an interest in my kids and I like to help them. Noah was one of my best students last year. You know, history classes are becoming like art and music, disappearing from school curricula, or at least de-emphasized. Some idiots think you just have to drill kids in math and science to be competitive. They forget we're dealing with human beings. And human beings need to be well-rounded."
"True. So you heard what happened to Noah?"
"Yes, I heard. Of course I heard, and I can't say as I'm too surprised. Awful. Simply awful that he had to make that cry for help. Maybe this will be the impetus to get him to quit football. But it's tough. He's getting a lot of pressure. From the coaches, the school, other kids. I think now that his mother has seen the number of scholarships being floated for playing football, she's changed her tune. With college tuition right around the corner, the idea of someone else paying over $65,000 a year to educate your kid has a lot of appeal."