“Please,” she said indignantly. “Aaron wouldn’t eat a candy bar unless it was organic. It took me a year to learn how to prepare raw foods just so I could cook him something he wouldn’t turn his nose up at. His only weakness was barbecue. And unless someone was secretly injecting his ribs with performance enhancing drugs, it wasn’t getting into his body. Lord knows the team wanted Aaron to use them though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Aaron told me the team asked him to use PEDs once. He politely declined. A few weeks later, someone claiming to be associated with the team asked me if I would try and persuade Aaron to use PEDs. They said they were going to cut him if I didn’t—and that I would lose my big house. I laughed at him and hung up. This house is paid for and Aaron helped me set up a fund to make sure I’d never run out of money. I know what they are saying is all a bunch of lies.”
“So, let’s suppose you’re right. Let’s say that Aaron didn’t commit suicide. Who do you think would possibly want to murder him?”
“I have no idea, but I know nothing the team is saying is true. He never had a concussion so I think it’s ridiculous that reporters are saying that’s the reason he killed himself. I made him bring home copies of his baseline tests, and I took them to a doctor friend of mine to make sure the team wasn’t putting him at risk. My friend told me Aaron’s results were so low, there’s no evidence he ever had even one concussion.”
Cal stopped scribbling notes and looked Mrs. Banks in the eyes. “Seriously? You checked on your grown son like that?”
“They never stop being your baby,” she said.
“Do you have those reports?”
“Sure do,” Mrs. Banks said, sliding a manila folder across the coffee table toward him. “I thought you might want these.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Banks. I’m not sure what I’ll be able to find out, but I’ll do my best. I’m going to be at the memorial service next week. And again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
Aretha thanked Cal and led him out.
Cal stuffed the folder in his bag and pondered what he had just learned. Mrs. Banks may not have had any idea who killed her son, but Cal did.
CHAPTER 11
THE CHRONICLE OFFICES WERE BUSTLING early Wednesday afternoon. The day before a holiday meant earlier deadlines and plenty of weekend fluff pieces. In a matter of hours, the newsroom would be run by the copy editors and page designers who were lowest on the totem pole. Cal always thought it odd that the most well-read papers of the years were cobbled together by the least experienced. But he wasn’t complaining since he fell into the “holiday off” category.
Hardman delivered another wisecrack in poor taste, one more suited for the locker room than the newsroom, but Cal ignored him again. He relished the moment when he was going to rub Hardman’s nose in it—though that still seemed far away given the facts Cal had in hand.
Cal sat down at his desk and less than 30 seconds later, his phone rang. It was Kennedy.
“Get in here, Cal. We need to talk.”
Cal always hated such invitations. It never resulted in a positive outcome.
Kennedy gestured for Cal to sit down as soon as he entered his office and closed the door behind him. Cal combined the papers strewn over the two guest chairs into one so he could sit down.
“What do you need?” Cal asked.
“How was your interview with Mrs. Banks?”
“I thought it went well. She’s obviously still torn up about her son’s death, but it was a good interview.”
“You’re not poking around on this conspiracy story still, are you?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Look, I’m serious, Cal. I know you and I know the pressure you’re feeling. But trust me when I say this—the pressure will get much worse if you go against what I’m asking you to do and drop it. Aaron Banks’ memorial is on Tuesday and I want a winning piece for next Wednesday’s paper.”
“OK, but she told me some stuff today that makes me think Aaron’s death was no accident.”
“Like what?”
Cal explained to Kennedy about the Stars coercing him to take PEDs and the news about the concussion baselines. It didn’t move him.
“So, you’ve still got a grieving mother who can’t accept that her son did drugs and thinks the club is covering something up?”
“Yeah, Kennedy, but there’s more to it than that.”
“Sounds like she wants to use you to help set up a nice civil lawsuit against the Stars. She’s looking for a pay day.”
“She’s not like that—“
“Of course she is. Who isn’t looking for easy money these days? She’s playing you.”
“Kennedy, do you think the worst of everyone?”
“Do you think the best? Keep thinking like that, Cal, and you’re going to get not just burned, but scorched, in this business. We print factual stories, not conjectures and conspiracies. That’s what blogs are for. Now keep your nose out of this story or you won’t like the outcome.”
Kennedy motioned for Cal to leave.
“By the way,” Kennedy added, “I got you a press pass for Sunday’s Raiders-Stars game. I thought a little insight from Aaron’s teammates might help with your piece on him and the Charles Robinson profile. You’ll still be in L.A. on Sunday, right?”
“Yeah, I’ll still be there.”
Cal returned to his desk questioning his own journalistic sense. His suspicion of others had served him well in the past. But Aaron’s death is what seemed more suspicious to him than his mother’s tale of an NFL team run amok. Two delicious stories, neither of which had enough facts to be printed.
With one source hiding out and the only other information he had was guess work at best, Cal felt stuck. Not to mention Kennedy was trying to shut him down on this story for some reason. He needed a new lead or some more facts soon.
For good measure, Cal called PacLabs again and asked for Ted. Jenny reported that he was unavailable and wouldn’t be back until after the holiday weekend on Monday. Another dead end.
With no Ted to talk to, Cal decided to dig into his past, maybe find out something about him that would shed light on his current behavior. He called the Fung Institute to see if any of Ted’s previous professors could be of any help. Cal identified a professor who worked in Ted’s field and inquired about Ted. The professor pointed in the direction of Dr. Sandy Jacobs, who served as Cal’s mentor in the program.
After introducing himself, Cal asked Dr. Jacobs if he remembers much about Ted Simpson.
“Why? Is he in some sort of trouble?”
“Dr. Jacobs, I’m just a reporter, not a police officer. I’m just trying to find out more about him for a story I’m working on regarding NFL drug testing.”
“Drug testing? Now that was Ted’s area of expertise. Did you know he developed a blood test for HGH that had nearly a 100% success rate? Worked with a small prick of the finger. It was sheer genius.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, it was part of his thesis work. He and several other classmates tried to make a go of it as a small enterprising company. They tried to sell their test to the NFL, but they claimed it was faulty. That was a lie but I guess that’s what happens when you run up against powerful people who would rather discredit you than admit the truth.”
“What happened with his classmates?”
“Well, that’s what I thought you were calling about—to give me the bad news about Ted.”
“Bad news? What do you mean?”
“Ben Sanders, Paul Phillips, and Trevor Wyatt were the three guys who worked with Ted to start DigiTest. They’re all dead now.”
“All dead? How?”
“It was freaky really. Ben had a heart condition nobody knew about and dropped dead from a heart attack while rock climbing. Paul blew a tire out while driving across the Vallejo Bridge and flipped over the guardrail and into the Carquinez Strait. And Trevor died in a fight at an illegal g
ambling club in Chinatown. They were all such bright young scientists with promising futures.”
Cal asked the obvious follow-up question. “You don’t think that’s suspicious at all?”
“Maybe a little, but any good scientists knows random occurrences don’t make a solid theory. They are all plausible in and of themselves. Ben loved rock climbing. Paul drove across that bridge each day. And Trevor’s gambling habit was no secret to those who knew him well. Besides, Ted’s still alive.”
“For now,” Cal muttered.
“Do you think he’s in danger?” asked Dr. Jacobs.
“I’m not sure at this point, but he might be. I’ve been trying to contact him for this story I’m working on and he claims to be out sick. But his landlady hasn’t seen him in a couple of days.”
“I hope he’s OK,” Dr. Jacobs added. His concern seemed genuine to Cal.
“Is there anything else about DigiTest that you think would be helpful?”
“Not really. Ben was the real financial brains behind the venture. Once he died and then the other two within the next six months, Ted had to shut it down. He was just clueless about how to proceed as a profitable business. What is it he’s doing these days?”
“He’s a lab tech at PacLabs.”
“A lab tech!? Are you serious? When you find him, tell him to call me so I can help him find suitable employment for someone of his intellect.”
Cal thanked Dr. Jacobs and hung up.
Three young scientists dead in six months? An NFL player commits suicide while still in his prime? A lab fixing drug tests of NFL players? Cal began to see a tapestry forming. He just needed to find the common thread.
CHAPTER 12
LATER THAT EVENING, CAL caught his flight for L.A. As much as he wanted to plumb the depths of his front-page scandal story, Cal let his mind wander toward much more peaceful thoughts, thoughts about Kelly. He still hoped that maybe they would both land in the same city—or that one of them would be willing to lay down their journalistic pursuits. But he knew the latter would never happen. His affection for Kelly was rivaled only by his passion for journalism. He knew she felt the same way. For now, this short-distance-long-weekend relationship worked.
But Cal wanted it all—the girl and the job. If forced to admit the truth, Cal might also acknowledge that Kelly always seemed to fill the gaps in his story with piercing questions. He needed her—and for plenty of reasons.
When he landed, Kelly picked him up and drove back to her gated apartment. She had moved two weeks before and was eager to show Cal her new place.
“A gate? You’re moving up in the world,” Cal chided her.
“OK, I know it’s crazy, but I wanted to live closer to work and this was the best neighborhood for it. It’s not the best part of town, I know. So, that’s why there’s a gate.”
Cal loved ribbing Kelly, especially about things like being in a high brow apartment complex. She hated pretentiousness, which made it all the more fun for Cal to tease her about it.
After dinner, they caught up on friends, co-workers, and potential locations they could vacation together in the summer. But Cal finally directed the conversation where he wanted it to go all night.
“I spoke with one of Ted’s old professors today,” Cal said.
“Cal! I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about work, remember?”
“I know, I know. But I thought you might be able to help me figure out some gaps in my investigation.”
“Fine. Go ahead.” She rolled her eyes, but Cal could tell it was feigned at best.
He caught Kelly up to speed on all the findings from his research and conversation with Dr. Jacobs. She was as convinced as Cal that somehow everything was connected.
“The motivation for why the Stars would do this is disturbing,” Kelly said after thinking for a few minutes. “Suppose Mrs. Banks’ story is true. Why would the Stars try to convince Aaron Banks to take PEDs? And why would they lie about him having symptoms from a concussion? It doesn’t make sense.”
Just as Cal began to respond, a brick broke through the window, sending shards of glass flying about the room. It almost hit Cal, who was sitting on the floor. Kelly began screaming as she stood on the couch against the far wall. Tires squealed; whoever it was that delivered the brick didn’t want to be seen or caught.
Cal froze, surrounded by a sea of splintered glass. Before he moved, he asked Kelly if she was working on anything that would generate such a response. Then he reached for the brick, which had a note attached to it by a rubber band.
Stop poking your nose where it doesn’t belong ... for you and your sweetheart’s sake
Cal shuddered. Someone followed him. How else would they know where he was? And who was “they” anyway? The lab? Ted Simpson? The Stars? It was hard to know who didn’t want him sticking his nose in their business.
Cal calmed Kelly down before picking her up and carrying her to safe ground in the kitchen. He then called the police and reported the vandalism. Kelly wasn’t in any mood to ponder who did this to her apartment or why. She expressed that she felt violated. Cal struggled to bite his lip and discuss the case no more with her. Nevertheless, his mind raced with possibilities.
About an hour after Cal called the police, they finally showed up. Lt. Fisk, one of the two responders, asked all the questions. Cal sensed the guy wasn’t happy about working on the eve of a holiday. He filled out a report and had Cal sign it, offering no idea of when they might be able to track the perpetrator down. Nor did he look interested. He gave Kelly a case number and told her to call their precinct on Monday to obtain a report for insurance if she needed it.
Cal cleaned up the glass, left to his own thoughts. At least he had something to be thankful for—neither he nor Kelly got hurt.
* * *
Thanksgiving Day proved to be uneventful on the investigative front. Cal promised not to talk about the case or what happened the night before. Instead, they had a big meal with some of Kelly’s work friends before hiking around nearby Sturtevant Falls.
They returned home in time to catch most of the late Thanksgiving Day game between the Giants and the Cowboys. Cal wasn’t a fan of either team, but he wasn’t about to pass up an American tradition. He convinced Kelly to join him.
The game didn’t offer much in the way of exciting plays or gripping theater. Most of the dead air was filled by the announcers speculating on the future of the Cowboys’ coaching staff, which seemed like a new tradition that had emerged in recent years. Kelly grew bored with the game, escaping into a copy of Sunset magazine.
Cal almost turned the game off before the halftime teaser arrested his attention.
“Tonight during our halftime report, we’ll take a look back at the career of Aaron Banks, look at today’s earlier games, and get a fascinating report from Molly Andrews on sports concussions and mental illness.”
Cal wondered how she could pull such a report together so fast for a prime time broadcast. He considered such a report to be in poor taste as it was being done so close to Aaron’s death—and then on the heels of a tribute to him, no less. But this was television. If newspapers moved at the speed of Mach 1, television moved at the speed of light. It was real time reporting, reporting that often played fast and loose with the facts. Cal remained on the couch with a smug look on his face. He was glad he wasn’t a television reporter and that he earned his jobs on merit, not cleavage and good looks.
Riveted to the screen, Cal watched the tribute and took sharp mental notes. Three teammates talked about how great of a person Aaron Banks was and what a tragedy it was that he took his own life. They all hinted that maybe there was something else going on, but didn’t directly say. What they didn’t say and who they didn’t interview made Cal curious.
He knew from covering the Seahawks’ beat before moving to San Francisco that NFL players typically hung out with other players who played on the same side of the ball. Offensive players hung out with other offensive players. Defe
nsive players did the same. And when it came to the closest relationships among the players, they usually were found among players who played the same type position. Offensive linemen hung out with other offensive linemen. Defensive backs went out to dinner with each other regularly. They were like mini fraternities.
The tribute piece on Aaron Banks only included one offensive player—an offensive lineman—and two linebackers from the defense.
Then came Molly’s sterling report. She interviewed brain surgeons who warned of the dangers of concussion and how it can change the chemical makeup of the brain. She followed up the medical portion of her report by sharing several anecdotes about players who committed suicide and how their autopsies showed severe brain damage. The camera panned in on her to frame her face—along with her cleavage—so she could deliver her powerful closing remarks about “losing another great player at far too young an age in Aaron Banks.” The two broadcasters echoed Molly’s sentiments exactly, saying nothing of the story, which seemed as out of place as a bikini in the arctic. Some producer got wrapped up in the moment and was trying to make some connection to current events with the report. Cal was still glad he had time to research his stories instead of shoving them out there like a half-baked casserole.
He pulled out his phone and made some notes. He was going to interview more than Charles Robinson tomorrow. And he needed Kelly’s help.
CHAPTER 13
CAL WOKE UP EARLY Friday morning and got ready for the day. He showered and made Kelly breakfast. It was a gesture with mixed motives, half hoping to impress her with his eggs benedict, half serving as a bribe to coerce her to help him. His plan worked. Then he proceeded to go over the more important plan—the one that was going to get him a front-page blockbuster story and save his job.
Despite the long holiday weekend, the Stars’ business office was bustling as usual when Cal and Kelly arrived. The office was a modest four-story building adjacent to the Stars’ practice facility. The plain stucco structure stood in stark contrast to the team’s flashy personality. If it weren’t for the monument topped with a golden star, it could have served as a bank or a group of doctors’ offices.
Better Off Dead (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 3) Page 5