Trevor stood. “I did. My friend found the guy and called me.”
The detective appraised them. “You’re part of Clear Knights?”
“There are five of us. Four riders and one dispatcher.”
“I understand you’re designated drivers? How does that work?”
“Somebody drinks too much, they call us. The dispatcher contacts a driver, who rides a scooter to the client. Our scooters are collapsible, so they fit into any car’s trunk or backseat. We drive the client home, get our bike, and go to the next call.”
Barker turned to Shaun. “Tell me what happened.”
Shaun watched the cops, his mouth open.
Trevor nudged him with his foot. “Shaun.”
Shaun’s head jerked up. “What?”
“The detective wants to know what happened.”
“With…”
“…the dead guy.”
“Oh. Right. Claire called me to pick up this dude. I get here and he’s…like that.”
“You touch anything?” Barker asked.
“Knocked on the window. Tried the door.”
“The driver’s side?”
“Yeah. And the other side.”
“The passenger side.”
“Uh-huh. And the back doors.”
Barker blinked. “So you touched all the door handles.”
“I wanted to see if I could help him. But they were all locked.”
Barker took a deep breath through his nose. “You see anything unusual?”
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
Shaun thought for a moment. At least Trevor hoped he was thinking.
“Nothing’s coming to me,” Shaun said.
Barker stared at them until Trevor shifted on his feet, like a grade-schooler.
“We have an ID,” Barker said.
Trevor waited, wondering why the detective looked ready to explode.
“It’s Bobby Crandall.”
“Bobby Crandall?” The world fell away.
“You know him?”
“Of course. I mean, I know who he is.”
Officer Torre trotted up, sending Shaun into near apoplexy. “M.E.’s done. Wants to know if he can move the body.”
“Give me a minute. I want to look one more time.” He pointed at Trevor. “You guys stay.”
Trevor sank to the ground. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him. I mean, it’s dark, but it’s not that dark.”
“I didn’t, either,” Shaun said. “Anyway, don’t people look different when they’re dead?”
Trevor glanced impatiently at his friend, then rested his chin in his hands, feeling useless and stupid.
Barker leaned into Crandall’s car before gesturing to the M.E. Barker pointed at his own neck, and the M.E. nodded and held his hands against Barker’s neck, as if demonstrating. Trevor went cold. Had Crandall been strangled? Who would be strong enough to do that?
Barker re-joined them.
“Was Crandall strangled?” Trevor asked.
Barker looked at him for a beat before saying, “Anything you boys want to add before we get your statements at the station?”
“Yes,” Trevor said. “It doesn’t make sense he would call us. Bobby Crandall’s whole deal is he doesn’t drink or do drugs. Doesn’t use steroids or even drink caffeine. You’ve seen his ads, right?” Anti-drinking Public Service Announcements that ran against beer commercials during NFL games. Not exactly a mainstream crusade, but people respected him for it.
“Our dispatcher said Crandall—well, she didn’t know it was him then—called us because he thought he might’ve drunk something, not that he was drunk.”
Barker turned to Shaun. “Are you sure you can’t remember anything else that struck you as odd when you arrived? Lights in the park, a smell, a sound?”
Shaun shook his head, then stopped, his eyes widening. “I guess there was one thing.”
“What?”
“A person. Running away.”
Trevor thought Detective Barker showed remarkable restraint in not shooting Shaun right between the eyes.
“A person?” Barker said through his teeth. “Running which way?”
Shaun pointed toward the park. “Pretty fast, too. I remember thinking even Trevor would have a hard time catching up.”
“Man? Woman?”
Shaun screwed up his face. “Couldn’t tell.”
“Wearing what?”
“Dunno.”
The veins in Barker’s neck became even more prominent. He pinned Shaun with a glare. “Stay.”
Barker speed-walked toward the crime scene team, yelling and pointing. A technician jogged toward the edge of the grounds, peering at the shoulder of the road and the edge of the grass with a flashlight.
Barker came back. “Anything else?”
Shaun shrugged. “Nope.”
Barker gestured to Officer Gills. “Take these two and get their statements.” He frowned at Shaun. “Try not to leave anything out.”
To Trevor’s relief, Shaun kept his mouth shut.
They stashed their scooters in the cruiser and caught a ride to the station. On the way into the building they met Claire, accompanied by another officer.
“Hey,” Trevor said, touching her arm. “You okay?”
“Sure. They wanted me to come in now. I forwarded calls to one of the other guys.” Her lips trembled. “I can’t believe it was him. Bobby Crandall.”
Officer Gills spoke gently. “No more talking till your statements are taken.”
An hour later Trevor found Claire on a bench, Shaun slouched beside her.
“I’m beat,” Shaun said. “We aren’t working any more, are we?”
Trevor glanced at the wall clock. Almost three. “No. Go home.”
Shaun pushed himself off the seat, looked ready to say something, then clamped his lips together and left, his shoulders sagging.
“Poor Shaun,” Claire said.
“Yeah. He can’t help it he’s so dumb.”
Claire’s lips twitched. “I meant finding the body. That had to be traumatic.”
Trevor wondered for a moment if he should go after his friend, but figured what Shaun really needed was sleep. And a brain transplant. “So, you ready for breakfast?”
Claire shrugged. “I guess.”
Trevor pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go.”
The door flew open and Dr. Wenger burst in. “I just heard. I was finishing up at the Civic Center when the cops came.” He swayed, and Trevor led him to the bench.
Claire rushed to the cooler and filled a paper cup. Wenger downed the water in one gulp. “I’m sorry, I’m just…” His eyes teared up. “I wanted to do something.”
“Maybe you can. Do you know much about Crandall’s movements tonight? Who he was with?”
Wenger twisted a cuff link. “He brought his fiancée, Maria, but others demanded his time, too. Professor Lumley was at his table; she paid to be seated there. Crandall’s parents, of course, and his old teammate, George Packard.”
Trevor grimaced. “The one who wrecked his knee senior year?” Packard had been hoping for a first-round NFL draft pick, along with Crandall. That hadn’t happened.
“So Packard’s not playing football?” Claire asked.
Trevor shook his head. “Went into the family business, selling tires.”
Trevor caught Claire’s eye and knew they were thinking the same thing. Crandall’s old teammate had a lot to be jealous of. Was that enough to want Crandall dead?
The inner door opened, and Officer Torre walked toward them. “Who’s this?”
Trevor introduced Wenger. “He was in charge of the fundraiser and convinced Crandall to come for it.”
Torre’s eyebrows rose. “Detective Barker was won
dering where you were. Come with me, please.”
Wenger stood, buttoning his suit coat. “Thanks, Trevor, and, ah…”
“Claire.” She smiled.
Wenger followed Torre through the door, and Trevor took Claire’s hand. “Ready?”
Her eyelids drooped. “I’m not really hungry.”
“Come on,” Trevor said, “I’ll take you home.”
Claire climbed onto the back of Trevor’s scooter and they hummed the three blocks to her dorm. Not the most comfortable ride, but Trevor didn’t mind having Claire’s arms tight around him.
She kissed him at the sidewalk, and Trevor watched until the dorm’s door clicked shut behind her. He knew he should go home and sleep, too, seeing how he’d been up since seven the previous morning, but he didn’t think he could turn off his brain yet. A car passed, its lights washing over the street, and Trevor realized there might be others still awake. He eased from the curb and rode toward the other side of campus.
The Civic Center was lit up, and a cop car idled at the entrance. Behind the cruiser were a crime scene van and another unmarked car. It wouldn’t be long till news vans started showing up, too. Maybe even ESPN.
Trevor recognized the people on the bench outside the front door, lit up by the building’s floodlights. Austin, one of Trevor’s baseball teammates, sat curved against the bench’s back, his long legs stretched in front of him. DeWayne, the football team’s star receiver and Trevor’s fellow physical education major, hunched beside him, elbows on his knees, dark face unreadable.
“Trev.” Austin yawned, his face pale with fatigue. “Whassup?”
“I think you know.”
“Do we ever.” DeWayne straightened. “Been getting the third degree for the past hour and a half. You’d have thought we killed the man.”
Trevor sat and stretched his neck side to side. “Any idea who did? You see anything?”
Austin snorted. “I was running my tail off. Barely noticed where Crandall was sitting.”
“What about you, D?”
“I worked the section beside Crandall’s, but couldn’t pay attention to him. Too busy.”
“Who was serving his table?”
“Who do you think?”
“Don’t tell me,” Trevor said. “Geena.”
DeWayne gave him a look. “Don’t think Crandall’s lady was happy about it, either.”
“Why? What was Geena doing?”
“Nothing,” DeWayne said, “’cept being herself. Gorgeous, friendly, you know.”
Austin aimed his thumb over his shoulder. “She’s getting grilled. That’s why we’re hanging. Promised we’d wait and walk her home. She’s pretty shook up.”
“How come you’re still awake?” DeWayne asked. “I thought you guys quit driving drunks at two.”
“We do, but Shaun found Crandall—he was supposed to drive him home.”
“But Crandall didn’t drink,” Austin said.
Trevor told them what Claire had told him, and what he’d seen Barker and the M.E. doing at the park.
DeWayne frowned. “Who would be strong enough to strangle an NFL player?”
“If he was impaired, it could’ve been anybody.”
“So that’s why you were wondering about his table,” DeWayne said. “Here comes Geena. You can ask her.”
A front-row hitter on the volleyball team, Geena was as tall as Trevor, and her skin glowed with health. This morning her step didn’t have its usual bounce.
“That was horrible,” she said when she reached them. “Crandall was super nice, treated me like a real person. You know, they don’t all.”
The guys avoided each other’s eyes.
“How about his fiancée?” Trevor asked. “Was she nice, too?”
Geena cocked an eyebrow. “That’s a joke, right? Acted like I was serving their table because I was after Crandall. Like I’d want him.”
“He was famous,” Austin said. “And rich.”
“And an amazing football player,” DeWayne added.
Geena wrinkled her nose. “The man was fat.”
DeWayne bristled. “He was a lineman.”
“What I want to know,” Trevor said, before the two broke into a fistfight, “is who had the opportunity to put something in his drink.”
Geena’s forehead scrunched. “He wasn’t drinking. The wine was flowing, but for sure not at his table.” She paused. “Lots of people could’ve messed with his lemonade, I guess.”
“I saw Dr. Wenger at the police station,” Trevor said. “He told me Dr. Lumley paid to be at Crandall’s table. Anybody know why?”
“Nope,” Austin said. “She hates football.”
“She wouldn’t drug him,” Geena said. “I mean, she teaches health.”
“Yeah,” DeWayne said, “but she also teaches personal fitness. Maybe she didn’t like how fat he was.”
“Get off it, DeWayne,” Geena growled.
Trevor thought for a moment. “She would understand how fast something could affect him. He was completely unused to drugs; even a little something would get to him. Was she trying to discredit him? Get him caught under the influence?”
“If not her,” Austin said, “maybe somebody else was.”
“Tons of folks came by the table,” Geena said. “It could’ve been anybody.”
DeWayne stood up. “Well, I know it wasn’t me. So I’m going to bed. I’m gonna fall asleep here if I don’t move.”
Austin pushed himself off the bench and stretched. “It wasn’t me, either. I was clear across the room. And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Geena, unless she made a pass at him and he brushed her off.”
Geena gasped. “You think somebody would turn me down?”
Austin put his arm around her. “Can’t imagine who. Coming, D?”
“Fast as my fat butt will let me.”
“Will you stop?” Geena smacked his shoulder. “I didn’t say all football players were fat. Look at George Packard. Now there’s a man.”
“Yeah,” DeWayne said. “A man who sells tires.”
Trevor considered Crandall’s old teammate. “Didn’t he bust his knee driving drunk?”
Austin nodded. “Nailed one of those concrete mailboxes and crashed into a tree. Dashboard crushed his leg. He was lucky to come out alive.”
“Was he?” DeWayne asked.
They looked at him with shared understanding.
“You happen to notice when Crandall left tonight?” Trevor asked Geena.
“Nope. He was upset about something, though, and he and his fiancée got into it good toward the end of the night. And before you ask, I have no idea about what.”
“So what happened after that?”
“I took their dessert plates to the kitchen, and when I got back he was gone.”
“With his fiancée?”
“No, she left with his parents later on. But Dr. Lumley and George Packard left soon after Crandall did.”
Trevor knew that Packard, not nearly as fit now as during college, would still be strong enough to take on the other man.
“Did Packard seem upset during the evening?” he asked Geena.
“Not really. He was quiet. Crandall’s dad did most of the talking.” She rubbed her eyes. “I just went through all of this with the cops at least five times. I need to go home.”
Trevor waved her off. “Sorry.”
The trio headed for the street, turning toward campus. Trevor stayed on the bench, his hands shoved in his pockets.
Poor Packard. Was his jealousy of Crandall so complete he followed him out of the fundraiser and killed him?
What about Crandall’s fiancée? If she was anxious about other women would she let him leave the fundraiser without her? Or was she the shadowy figure Shaun had seen fleeing through the park?
> Trevor glanced at his watch. Almost four. Nobody would be coming out of the Civic Center except cops, and they wouldn’t tell him anything. So he had two options since the gym didn’t open for another two hours: sleep, or eat breakfast.
He went home to bed.
***
Trevor woke several hours later. The mess in the kitchen testified to his housemates’ breakfasts, but the house itself was quiet. He pulled on some warm-ups, downed a yogurt, and headed to the gym.
Toward the end of his final set of chest presses in the outdated fitness center, Shaun’s face appeared above his. “Want a hand?”
“Nah, I’m done.” Trevor set the bar in the rack and sat up, wiping his face with a towel. “You okay?”
“Didn’t sleep much. So I had time to think.”
Shaun thinking made Trevor a bit anxious, but Shaun surprised him.
“There was a lot of money riding on this fundraiser, right?”
“Tons.”
“You think the campaign could be screwed up because of Crandall’s death?”
Trevor draped his towel around his neck. “For sure.”
“So, what if someone wanted that? Hasn’t some guy been protesting since the project started?”
“Barry Smeltzer. The English prof who hates athletics.”
“What’s his beef with sports?”
“He was always the last one picked on the playground.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know, Shaun. Anyway, he’s been outspoken about how much the university spends on athletics. He forgets it’s sports that bring in most of the school’s money. I don’t see Smeltzer rounding up English recruits and hosting thousands of paying fans.”
“And, as any accounting major knows—more money is more money.”
Trevor clapped his friend on the back. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“Well,” Shaun said, “you are just a phys ed major.”
***
In a short text conversation, Geena answered Trevor’s questions. She’d seen Smeltzer briefly at the fundraiser, which confused Trevor. Smeltzer would never support the fitness center by buying a ticket.
Trevor jogged the short distance to the athletics office. He was greeted by the department secretary, whose usual smile was subdued.
“Hey, Alice,” Trevor said. “Do you have a list of everyone who attended the fundraiser?”
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