“TURN RIGHT NOW,” the navigation app announced.
“I guess you should turn right,” I said.
Colin glanced sideways at me and smirked. “What would I do without you?” he asked.
I smiled. “Oh, there it is on the left.”
“DESTINATION IS ON YOUR LEFT,” the computer navigator announced.
Colin laughed.
I rummaged in my wallet while he parked the car.
Holding up my black corporate credit card, I asked, “Do you think this is a work expense? It’s not really for the story.”
Colin shrugged. “I think it’s okay. It’s mostly work-related—even if it doesn’t end up in your story.”
“I don’t know,” I muttered. I bit my lip and took my personal bank card out of my wallet.
Colin laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You,” he said. “And your, what? Ethics?”
“What do you mean? I don’t want to get in trouble for misusing funds.”
“That’s nice you’re so considerate, but the thing you’re mailing is stolen,” he said, still laughing. “You broke into an office and stole it.”
I giggled. “I had a good reason. Besides, those are misdemeanors.”
“I know,” he said.
He wrapped his hand around my wrist and pulled me toward him. I leaned in, allowing him to kiss me softly on the lips.
This kiss was more passionate than the last one. And after our platonic lunch, it surprised me a little. Reluctance tugged at me when I leaned away from Colin and got out of the car.
“Be right back,” I said, willing my knees to hold me up, despite how wobbly they felt.
“Okay,” Colin said as he leaned back in his seat and gave me a contented smile.
When I got back to the car after mailing the package, Colin was looking at his phone. The softness that had been in his eyes after our kiss was gone now.
“There’s a press conference at the coroner’s office,” he said.
“What?” The last email I’d received from Felix High was a routine press release warning people not to leave their dogs locked in hot cars. “Why didn’t I get an alert?”
“I guess it’s just a last-minute thing. Do you want to try to go?” Colin asked.
We figured out it would take thirty minutes to drive to the coroner’s office to hear a press conference that would be starting any minute. And that would make us late for the Wreckers bout. So instead, we decided to listen to the press conference on the radio on our way to the bout. It began with a statement from Felix.
“As you know, the death of Harris Myer is being investigated as a homicide,” he said. “Today, the coroner’s report does confirm that foul play was an essential factor in Myer’s death. I’ll let Dr. Suwaid explain further.”
The doctor sounded like he was reading from a piece of paper, rather than speaking spontaneously.
“The post-mortem examination of Harris Myer revealed two poorly controlled chronic illnesses: hypertension, or high blood pressure, and type two diabetes. He also suffered from obesity. The high blood pressure, which I estimate had been going on for at least two decades, caused enlargement of his heart. The subject was also experiencing the early stages of end organ damage, specifically in the kidneys and lower extremities, due to diabetes.”
“No kidding,” I muttered under my breath. It seemed obvious that, despite his occupation as a gym owner, Harris Myer was not interested in a healthy diet and exercise routine. His gym ownership was probably just a money-making venture, not a lifestyle choice.
Dr. Suwaid continued, “However, those diseases had little, if any influence on Mr. Myer’s death. The cause of death in this case is blunt force trauma to the head, specifically, a blow to the right periorbital area.”
“That mark under his eye,” Colin noted, softly.
I remembered it, too. There had been a deep gash on Harris’ face.
Dr. Suwaid went on to explain how a penetrating fractured facial bone caused bleeding around the victim’s brain. A second, “incidental” fracture was found on the back of his head where he had fallen to the floor.
I gazed out the window while Colin drove, wondering what—and who—could have struck that blow. Would they need to be strong, or just hit a certain spot swiftly? Could it have been a fight or an assault that turned into a death, as opposed to an intentional murder?
I wondered how the news reporters at that press conference would write about the coroner’s report. Even though the public seemed to have an increasingly strong tolerance for gore, the reporters would no doubt soften the information a little. They might take out the phrase “penetrating facial fractures,” or skip talking about the bleeding in his skull.
When I first started working in news, I had a hard time understanding just how much graphic detail belonged in my stories. I thought it was important to be accurate, but often editors would return my stories, asking me to “tone it down a little.”
“Not everyone is as hardened as us,” one city editor had told me. “Granny doesn’t need to read about this stuff over her morning bowl of oatmeal.”
From that day on, I always pictured a nice old lady, wearing a pink bathrobe and sipping coffee, reading my stories. That made it easier for me to filter the truth—make it just a little more palatable.
“Where’s the weapon?” A reporter’s shrill voice over the radio snapped me back to the present.
“Ahem.” Felix cleared his throat. “The police department has not recovered the murder weapon. Forensics have given us some insight regarding the weight and size of the object that was used, but we can’t release that information now.”
“Detective Kruger said the scene was contaminated. Is that true?” a different reported asked.
“I wouldn’t use the word ‘contaminated,’” Felix said, clearing his throat again. “But it is a very challenging crime scene. That recreation center is a busy place. There are no cameras and no records are kept regarding who is coming and going from the building.”
Felix continued, “The body was discovered by a group of at least a dozen people, so yeah, it’s a tough situation. But I wouldn’t call it contaminated. Everyone at the scene was highly cooperative.”
I looked at Colin with my eyebrows raised, wondering how long it would take for the Wreckers to be dragged into this.
“I’m surprised they didn’t say anything about the derby team,” I said. “I’m glad, though. They don’t deserve that kind of publicity.”
“It’s early,” Colin said. “Plus, if they really are looking at Neil, maybe they don’t want to tip him off.”
A new voice came on the radio. “Can you explain more about the dozen people who found Myer’s body? Who were they? Were any children present?”
“There were no children at the River Lane Rec Center when police were called or when they arrived,” High said. “No youth events were scheduled for the center that day.”
There was a huff of static from someone breathing into the microphone, then Felix announced, “That’s all we can say for now.”
Sounds of reporters shouting questions faded as the radio station cut back to the reporter on site. I clicked the radio off as the electronic navigator announced that we were arriving at our destination.
We were early, and there were only a handful of cars in the lot.
“I hope we can get in,” Colin said after we’d gotten out of the car and began walking toward the main entrance.
But I could barely hear him over the bass murmur of men’s voices on a car radio tuned to a news channel. We were walking by a black station wagon with the motor running.
I glanced at the driver’s seat, expecting to see someone waiting, maybe looking at their phone. Instead, I saw a woman with her head lowered, her hands pressed over her eyes. She had a tidy brunette ponytail that I recognized. It was Kara.
I nudged Colin with my elbow. He looked at the car, then back at me, his eyebrows pushed together wi
th concern.
“You go ahead inside,” I said.
My stomach did a little tumble, reminding me how much I disliked displays of emotion. But Kara looked like she was in bad shape. I couldn’t ignore her.
I walked around to the passenger side door, leaned down, and gently knocked on the window.
Kara looked up. Her eyes were puffy and pink. She pushed a button, causing the locks to click open as she motioned for me to come in.
I opened the door and sat down, resting my hands over my messenger bag on my lap. Kara’s car smelled like fresh coffee and a light, fruity shampoo or perfume.
“You okay?” I asked.
She shook her head and wiped her eyes.
“The detectives were just at my house,” she said. “It was that Kruger guy—what an ass.”
I couldn’t help but giggle. “Indeed.”
“He came over when he knew Neil would be at work and he—he just really scared me,” Kara said.
“What did he say?”
She let out a shuddering breath and said, “He says they have proof Neil wasn’t sleeping during the murder—they won’t say what it is though. Then he told me that I might be an accessory if I don’t give up some information.”
Kara stared at the steering wheel while she twisted a bracelet on her wrist.
“But I don’t have anything to give up,” she said. “He tells me he was sleeping and I believe him. Neil isn’t perfect, but he’s not a murderer.”
“What do you mean he’s not perfect?” I asked. “Because he got in that fight with Myer at the bar?”
“Yeah. And his dad. And other stuff. He never had an easy life, you know?” Kara said. “He’s got issues.”
“We all do,” I said, trying to sound supportive. But I wanted to know what she was really talking about. Did Neil have a drug problem? Was he a gambler? Or was he abusive?
I wanted to ask Kara more questions—to make her understand that I could only help her if she was totally honest with me.
This wasn’t the time to push her, though. Her breathing was still shaky and her hands were fidgeting.
“First of all, don’t worry about Rocky’s threats. That’s just a little trick they use to get people to talk,” I said. “And second, what about a lawyer? This thing seems to be escalating. I think it’s time, at least for Neil, to get someone.”
She nodded. “I have no idea how we’ll afford it, but I think you’re right.”
“You’ll feel so much better if the two of you can sit down with someone,” I said. “I don’t think you should talk to the police alone anymore—not until you’re represented.”
“But won’t that make us look guilty?”
I summoned my courage and looked her in the eye to tell her an uncomfortable fact.
“In the sense of public opinion, maybe so,” I said. “But the most important thing is that you protect your rights. A lawyer can do that for you.”
Kara pressed her fingertips against her closed eyes. We sat quietly for a minute. I looked out the window, across the parking lot. It was still mostly empty.
Finally, she took a deep breath and opened the car door.
“Let’s get in there,” she said. “I have lots to do.”
| Ten
Music blasted inside the gymnasium. It was a female rock group I’d heard before, called The Pretty Reckless. At one end of the hundred-foot-long flat track, men and women were carrying binders, laptops, and audio equipment to a long table. To the side, some people were setting up the digital scoreboard.
A player for the Violent Crown walked past me. According to her jersey, her name was Felonista. An athletic bag hung from one shoulder, while her other arm reached to hold hands with a kindergarten-aged boy. She handed him a juice box and a tablet after he sat in one of the folding chairs that would be her team’s bench.
I looked around for Colin, but didn’t see him. Then I picked up a black-and-white computer-printed program from a stack by the door, and sat down in the front row of bleachers.
The Central Texas Derby Association logo was printed on the program’s cover. The back of the program was a full-page advertisement for InkRage, a tattoo shop. Mia was one of the three tattoo artists in the ad’s main photo. All three smiled at the camera slyly as they held their tattoo guns.
The inside of the program held detailed team rosters. Each player had her picture and stats listed, along with information about the social media accounts where fans could follow them. This would be a gold mine for my story—and maybe for figuring out the murder.
Kara’s stats were impressive. She’d been involved with derby for a long time, and she was a winner. Her quote was a line from Harry Potter.
Her photo was pretty. She looked just slightly younger in it, and there was a light playfulness in her eyes that I hadn’t seen in recent days.
On the next page, under the Violent Crown’s roster, the women in the photos looked youthful and energetic, but they all seemed to have an edge of aggression in their faces. Maybe I was imagining it—my opinion was probably biased after all the stories I’d heard about their clashes with the Wreckers.
I looked at Lacey Myer’s listing. She had impressive stats too. That wasn’t a surprise—she stood at least six inches taller than the rest of the players and looked like a wall of muscle. A Twitter handle, @lacesk8tr, was printed under her picture.
I took out my phone and pulled up the account. There was nothing surprising in her posts: hardcore workout memes and quotes, retweets about Longhorns football, plenty of roller derby tweets, and typical random cat pictures.
Next, I looked to see who she was following. SoCo Athletics and her aunt, Rita Myer, were at the top of her list.
A tweet from SoCo Athletics this afternoon announced “Summer Slimdown Special starts today!! Half off three month memberships!” There was an animated drawing of a smiley-faced sun wearing black sunglasses, with flashing rays popping out from its center.
The festive announcement didn’t seem to be in good taste considering the gym’s owner just had his autopsy finished today. But, I couldn’t blame them—the workers there needed the business to stay open. The recent mentions in the news probably weren’t helpful.
I navigated over to Rita’s feed. All her posts from the past few days were retweets of news stories and condolence messages about Harris’ death. Scrolling past those, I saw Rita’s tweets promoting the gym and selling supplements. There were also tweets where she tried to entice women to “run your own business” by signing up with her to sell essential oils.
As the arena started to fill, and uniformed players came onto the track for warm-up laps, I used the roster to look up more accounts from Capitol City Wreckers and Violent Crown players. It looked like Shannon was involved in a dog rescue. One of the players from the Violent Crown was a physician. Another played fiddle in a bluegrass band.
That might be a good story, I thought, but writing about the Wreckers’ nemesis felt oddly disloyal.
A gray-haired couple wearing Violent Crown T-shirts and holding cans of beer sat down beside me. I looked around for Colin and felt surprisingly relieved when I saw him, in his dark jeans and gray henley shirt, talking to one of the referees, who stood, in his skates, a full foot over Colin. Then I felt a shiver come over me when I saw two uniformed police officers walk into the gym. They had obvious bullet-proof vests under their shirts. I wondered if they were here for an arrest for Myer’s murder. Surely, they weren’t investigating—that was Rocky’s territory.
Colin seemed to catch my expression—my face as I watched the officers—from across the room. He looked from me to them, and back to me again, his hand resting on his camera as it hung from his neck.
I glanced at Kara as she stood, frozen, on the side of the track, watching the officers.
The officers walked to the small concession booth and got in line. I exhaled, realizing they weren’t here to arrest anyone. They were just providing routine police presence at a busy public even
t.
A man with large wooden earrings, a scraggly beard, and a slick deejay’s voice started making announcements. He introduced team captains and starting lineups. Then everyone stood as a trumpet player walked to the center of the track to play the national anthem.
After the song, and the applause that followed it, the announcer came over the speakers again.
“At this time, the teams are asking you to remain standing for a moment of silence,” he said. “You might have noticed the black arm bands the Violent Crown women are wearing tonight. They recently lost an important member of their team family: their sponsor, Harris Myer.”
The Violent Crown players stood shoulder to shoulder, heads lowered, on their side of the track. When a referee finally blew a whistle, the Crown players formed something of a huddle around Lacey, all hugging her simultaneously. Then both teams got into position and, with a signal from a referee, the bout began.
I took out my notepad and began writing some descriptive phrases about the way the women played. It was intense, calculating, and physical. And it was easy to see why roller derby was becoming a popular spectator sport—the action was swift and exciting.
Kara was the starting jammer for the Wreckers. Even though the Crown had a size, and maybe even speed, advantage, no one could stop Kara. She moved around the track, nimbly avoiding blockers and racking up points. She finally called the jam complete by making an exaggerated hands-on-hips motion until a referee blew the whistle.
Next, the Wreckers’ players all stayed on the track, while a few Violent Crown players went to the bench and others skated out.
The next jam started. This time, the Crown’s jammer got out in front. Kara’s face glistened as she worked to catch up to her. The Crown’s jammer, whose name was Grinning Reaper, slipped through the Wreckers’ line of blockers with only one small hip-check.
She was gaining a big lead when Kara was coming up on a line of the Crown’s blockers, anchored by Lacey. When Kara tried to slip through a gap between two of the women, she was shoved back.
She tried again—this time coming around the outside, Lacey’s side. When Kara tried to pass, Lacey swung one leg out, tripping Kara and launching her into the air. Somehow Kara’s hand, or maybe a strap on her wrist guard, got caught on the chin strap of Lacey’s helmet.
Assignment Austin Page 7