by Robert Greer
As noted earlier in this volume, the terms used to describe our sports archetypes are not necessarily standard taxonomy for the profession. Rather, they have been arrived at after years of research in a reasoned attempt to examine the psychology that motivates the gladiator athlete. The term “Self-Assured Perfectionist” is thus a research term coined to accurately define an archetype rather than standard taxonomy of the academy.
The Self-Assured Perfectionist is competitive to a fault, and like many of the athletic types described here, they tend to be natural leaders. This athletic type tends to occasional sullenness and is frequently unable to come to grips with the fact that it is their athletic skill, rather than some other attribute they may see as more significant, that defines them. They sometimes have trouble seeing the forest for the trees, and although they tend to be natural leaders, they prefer to shun the limelight. Frequently, when finished with their athletic careers, they find no place to land. CASE HISTORY TO FOLLOW. EXAMPLE: DAMION MADRID. TEXTUAL PSEUDONYM: CARL LYNART. EVALUATION NOTES FROM DAMION MADRID'S SUMMER SESSION, FRESHMAN YEAR, TO BE TRANSCRIBED HERE.
Noting the look of anguish on Damion's face, Flora Jean said, “So whatta you got, Blood? Found yourself in there yet? And are they singin’ your praises?”
“Less than I would've liked.” Damion shook the manuscript at Epps. “This thing reads like pop-culture psychobabble.”
“Madrid, Madrid. You sound offended. Something in the text touch a nerve? Takes the wind out of your sails to see your reflection in the mirror sometimes, doesn't it? Well, for the record, according to Paulie, the book wasn't intended to have any kind of scientific, scholarly, or academic merit. Quite the opposite. From what I gathered, the intent was to have the book hit all the right best-seller lists so Paulie and Dr. Phillips could make the TV talk-show rounds, dish their dirt, and rake in the money.”
“Where the hell were they getting their information? Neither one of them ever interviewed me,” Damion said defensively.
“Maybe not, but they sure as hell interviewed your friend Blackbird. And according to Paulie, some of the information they assembled on him was gathered before he even started at CSU.”
Damion slammed his fist into the couch. “Damn! I did talk to Dr. Phillips one-on-one the summer before our freshman year, but everyone on the team did. Coach Horse required us to. It was nothing more than a fifteen-minute chat about keeping my nose clean and what to expect from college life, as I remember it.”
“Could be you're remembering wrong,” said Epps. “But whether you are or aren't, it looks like Dr. Phillips was into finding out what made you tick long before you ever hit the school and the basketball court.”
“But I barely talked to her during the next four years after that. Even though Coach Horse sometimes insisted that I should after I'd had a bad game or we came off a tough loss.”
“Barely's not the same as never, Madrid. You talked to her, and that's the point.” Epps seemed to enjoy his chance to point the finger at Phillips.
Feeling duped, Damion said, “Yeah, I did. So how long had she and Grimes been working on their project?” He tossed the manuscript aside on the couch.
“I'm not sure about Paulie's involvement—a year, maybe two—but he told me Phillips had been working on her premise of showcasing chinks in the armor of her so-called gladiator athletes for a good part of her career. It almost got her canned at another university, according to him. Something to do with inappropriate contact with student athletes by a person in a position of trust and unsanctioned human experimentation.”
Flora Jean shook her head. “Sounds like the good doctor was makin’ up the rules as she went along.”
“Yeah, it does,” said Damion. “What I'm wondering is what was in it for her.”
“A big fat paycheck, what else?” said Epps, taking a toke off a newly lit joint and eyeing Damion as if he were stupid. “I know they had a contract with a publisher in New York. Paulie never told me exactly what they signed on for, but it was in the high six figures, I know that.”
Damion eyed the manuscript and shook his head. “They pay you that kind of money to write that kind of crap?”
“We live in a tell-all, voyeuristic, celebrity-driven society, kid. Maybe you should start taking notice.”
“They couldn't possibly have gotten away with it. Someone would've sued them.”
“Unlikely,” said Epps. “They weren't going to name names. The manuscript you're turning your nose up at is just a draft. No real names would've appeared on publication. Your friend Blackbird would've simply become Joe Dokes and the subject of Case History A. And you, my friend, would have been just another Sam Smith and turned into Case History B. Who knows, in the end, considering the public figure angle involved here, they could have ended up using the real names.”
“Yeah, I saw the name changes in the notes. But the information was gathered without our permission, and I'd be willing to bet that Dr. Phillips probably used either federal or state grant funds to generate her data. Even college students know that's a no-no.”
“Can you prove that?” Epps asked pointedly. “In case you missed it, we're not talking cancer research here, Madrid. No DNA markers involved, and none of that CSI shit. What we're talking about is at best a few tape-recorded sessions, some handwritten notes, fifteen or twenty years’ worth of a leading sports psychologist's observations, and a Pulitzer Prize–winning investigative reporter's thoughtful impressions. Have you got any documentation that proves Phillips didn't have permission to use her notes from talking to you before you began your freshman year? Any proof in fact that she talked to you at all? Can you produce any receipts or records, tapes or signed consent forms, to show that she used federal or state or even private research funds to tell you and your teammates any more than what to expect in college?”
Taking in the look of betrayal plastered on Damion's face, Flora Jean said, “Damn, Epps. You're one hell of an operator when it comes to manipulatin’ the truth.”
Epps smiled and shook his head. “No, Paulie and Alicia Phillips had me beat by a long shot there. I'm simply your run-of-the-mill investigative reporter.” He sounded disappointed.
Eyeing Flora Jean and looking confused, Damion asked, “Do you think Dr. Phillips killed Shandell?”
“Maybe. At this point I'm not certain. At least this new information gives us another reason to land on the good doctor's doorstep.” She glanced at Epps. “What's your take?”
“I'd say she was a conduit at best. But since you're asking, I'd put my money on that mobster you mentioned on the way over here being the killer—Asalon, I believe you said. Or maybe the coach. He could've been acting as her shill, feeding her a steady diet of available athletes.”
“For the record, sugar, the name is Asalon, and I'm less inclined to think he's the killer. The man's a pro, and even if he was involved, he sure wouldn't have been stupid enough to kill Shandell and Grimes himself. He's the kind that has other people do his dirty work.”
“Craigy Theisman maybe,” said Damion.
“Now you're talkin’ my language,” said Flora Jean. “Or maybe that hit man out of Detroit. The midget you mentioned that Pinkie told you about last night.”
“But why would Asalon want to get rid of Shandell and Grimes?” Damion asked, looking puzzled. “Asalon didn't have anything to do with the stupid book.”
Epps responded quickly. “For the same reason you got all bent out of shape just a bit ago when I said something about recognizing yourself in the mirror. The cops have a way of putting a name and ultimately a face on a murderer when quite often they don't start out with anything but a reflection in the mirror. Maybe Shandell's case history pointed a finger at Asalon, and he didn't like it.”
Nodding in agreement, sensing they'd gotten what they'd come for and that she and Damion had said enough about where they planned to head with their investigation in front of Epps, Flora Jean said, “Think it's about time we go, Blood. Let's let Mr. Epps do hi
s thing and we'll do ours.”
“Okay,” Damion said, eyeing Epps with a renewed hint of suspicion. “You sure know a lot about that manuscript.”
“Like I told you, I pretty much typed it for Paulie.”
“You wouldn't have wanted to steal your friend's thunder, now, would you?” Flora Jean asked.
“Of course not. You're far too jaded, Ms. Benson.”
“Comes from dealin’ with the what's-in-it-for-me kinda folks I've had to rub shoulders with for so many years.” Glancing at Damion, who'd reopened the manuscript to page 48, she said, “Let's go, Blood. See if we can't run down a better class of people.”
Chapter 25
Flora Jean had skirted most of downtown Denver's traffic crunch, taking York Street northbound. Satisfied at having erased twelve minutes off the travel time to Fort Collins by cutting through the western edge of what some people considered the ’hood, she and Damion found themselves cruising through the clogged 104th Avenue–I-25 interchange. Pegging the shock-weary Suburban's speedometer at 70, she eyed the ever-encroaching sea of houses, con-dos, townhomes, and business parks hugging the interstate and thought a little sadly about what had once been open tallgrass prairie.
“So whatta you think about Coach Haroldson tellin’ you he's a beneficiary on that insurance policy of Shandell's?” Flora Jean asked as they sped north past mile marker 231. “Think two hundred and fifty grand coulda gotten him thinkin’ that one of his former players might've been dispensable?”
“Things are bad enough, Flora Jean. No need to start conjuring stuff up. Coach Horse didn't kill Shandell.”
Flora Jean's response was an understanding nod. She understood very well that Damion couldn't fathom someone he revered having such a dark side. She decided not to belabor the point, or to mention cases she'd worked in which brothers had bludgeoned their sisters to death, wives had electrocuted their husbands, and businessmen had pushed their partners to their deaths from ten-story buildings in order to collect on far less lucrative policies.
Two miles south of the always-busy I-25 Dacono exit, Damion's cell phone rang, chirping out the first few bars of the Motown classic “My Girl.” “It's Niki,” Damion said, snapping the phone off his belt.
“How do you know that?”
“From the ring tone.”
Flora Jean shook her head. “Kids.”
“What's up, Ms. America?” Damion asked eagerly.
“That's Ms. Venezuela to you, you Yankee dog. Where are you, by the way?” Niki asked, forcing back a laugh.
“Cruising up I-25 in the Suburban with Flora Jean on our way to Fort Collins. How'd your lunch go?”
“Not so good.”
“Don't tell me Ms. Blue-Eyed Blonde told you your locks were too black and your skin a tad too cinnamony for her and her sisters to invite you to the pledge party?”
“I wish it were that simple, Damion.” Niki's voice trailed off.
“Sounds like you turned something up.”
“I did.”
“Bad?”
“Depends on how you look at it.”
“I took my rose-colored glasses off a long time ago. Might as well lay it on the line.”
“Okay. Maria knows a lot. A lot about Connie and her family, and I'm afraid a lot about Shandell.”
“And?”
“And she claims Connie was just using Shandell. That he was her one chance at the brass ring—that she only latched on to him for the money.”
“Nothing new there. In fact, I sort of suspected it.”
“Me too. But some other things came out that I didn't expect. According to Maria, Shandell was using Connie too. Have you got your seatbelt on, Damion?”
“Yes.” Looking perplexed, Damion glanced down at his seatbelt. “Sure do.”
“Maria said Shandell was gay.”
“What?”
“That's what she told me—point-blank—right as we were having coffee. I almost spit my coffee out, I was so shocked. She said she's the only other person in the sorority who knew and that Connie swore her to secrecy. She claimed Connie and Shandell had an understanding—he'd take her where she wanted to go socially and financially, and she'd be the ever-present don't-dare-question-my-masculinity drop of feminine sweetness on his arm. Those were Connie's exact words, according to Maria.”
“There's no way.”
“That's what I said. But there's more. Maria claims Connie started to cash in a few of her chips early, before Shandell ever headed off to the NBA, by hooking Shandell up with that mobster Asalon, the one Pinkie told us about. It was part of a pact Shandell agreed to in order for Connie to keep his secret.”
“She's full of it.” Damion slammed his fist down on the armrest, startling Flora Jean. “No way in hell Shandell could've been gay!”
“I'm just telling you what I found out, Damion.”
“Well, somebody's lying.”
“I'm just the messenger, Damion. No need to shoot me.”
“Sorry, babe. Let's just drop the issue for the moment and let me get my brainwaves back in sync. Anything else come out of your meeting?”
“Yes. One other thing. It turns out that the blonde-haired tightbodies of dear old Tri Delt like to dig into your family history when they're considering giving you a key to their kingdom. Maria seemed to know as much about Connie's family as she knew about Connie.”
“Got a for-instance for me?”
“Sure do. She said Connie's father spent a lot of money on lawyers a few years back, getting himself out of a mess involving what Maria would only define as a petty white-collar crime. All I could get out of her was that it had something to do with junk bonds, underworld types, and improperly registered securities.”
“Interesting. Could be Mr. Eastland found himself in bed with the wrong people. Would you believe the name Garrett Asalon suddenly keeps popping up in my mind?”
“We're on the same page there. That's all I could get out of her besides getting stuck with the lunch tab. Oh, and by the way, hotshot, as we were leaving Maria asked me if we'd gotten engaged.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her the truth. That in a lot of ways you were chiseled out of the same piece of noncommittal granite as your godfather, CJ Floyd. That shut the prissy little gossip-monger up.”
“I'll be sure to tell CJ that when I pick him and Mavis up tonight at DIA.”
“He loves me, Blood. He'll take my side. So what are you and Flora Jean planning on doing while you're in Fort Collins?”
“Talk to everybody with any kind of insight into who might've killed Shandell one more time. We did get a lead from that bong-head, Wordell Epps. It turns out that Alicia Phillips and Paul Grimes, that investigative reporter who was killed, were writing a book about the psychological dark side of college athletes. Shandell was one of their featured players.”
“Interesting. Did you make the cut?”
“Sure did.”
“And what's your dark side?”
“Don't have one… . At least, I don't think I do,” Damion added with an uncustomary air of uncertainty.
Realizing from his tone that she'd struck a nerve, Niki said, “Call me when you get back from Fort Collins, Damion, and please would you try listening to Flora Jean?”
“I will.” Damion flipped his cell phone closed. After staring straight ahead down the interstate for the next couple of minutes, mulling over what Niki had said and trying to come to grips with the often ugly and ever-changing nuances of life, he turned to Flora Jean. “So what do you think, Flora Jean? You heard the conversation. Do you think Shandell was gay?”
“Don't really know, Blood. But I can tell you this for sure. Being outta step with the rest of the world, for whatever reason, is sometimes enough to get you killed.”
Damion found himself thinking about the takeaway message from A Morning at the Office: Outsiders aren't welcome here. Recalling the inscription Shandell had written in Leon's book, a message that only seemed to rei
terate that point, he eyed Flora Jean and said, “I guess nobody really enjoys being on the outside looking in.”
“You're right there, Blood. Absolutely and positively nobody.”
Damion sat, thoughtfully silent for the remaining twenty-minute ride to Fort Collins. He'd never even considered the possibility that Shan-dell might have been gay, let alone the idea that he might have been killed for reasons tied to his secret. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that blackmail could easily have triggered his best friend's murder. There was no way Shandell would've gotten himself involved in peddling performance-enhancing drugs to kids unless someone had had a gun to his head, and he knew that Shandell wouldn't have let Coach Horse or his teammates down by getting involved in a point-shaving scam unless he was fearful of losing his reputation, his life, or both.
When it came to the elite masculine world of college and professional sports, Damion understood that you'd jump off a bridge before you'd admit to being gay. Drug use, petty larceny, infidelity, spousal abuse, lying, being a flat-out racist, and even committing a felony were problems that could be overcome. But homosexuality was a guaranteed kiss of death. Even whispers about one's sexual orientation in the wide world of sports had the potential to end a career.
Sitting back in his seat and frowning, Damion tried his best to recall any instance in all the years they'd known one another when Shandell might've dropped even a hint that he was gay. He thought about the scores of camping and fishing trips they'd been on with other kids, about school dances and basement parties. Even about their first teenage drinking experiences, when they'd both been at least temporarily uninhibited and adrift in those euphoric, let-your-hair-down, tell-all moments. He reflected on the endless basketball clinics and strength-conditioning camps they'd been to, where participants had often been forced to bunk eight and ten to a room. He racked his brain trying to recall anytime during high school or college when Shandell had gone off on his own to, in effect, do his thing. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't recall a single instance when Shandell had acted like anything but the introverted gentle giant he was.